The Dead Can't Testify
by astro.pancakes
Summary: Detective Arthur Kirkland has spent his entire career hunting after the fabled assassin General Winter and his underlings. So, what happens when one ends up at a hospital in France, demanding the chance to be the hero? Human AU with human names.
1. Prologue: Beginnings Start at the End

**Well, to be honest, I kind of had the urge to write a more serious fic while I was working on the more humorous Hamburger Crises, so this one was born. Hopefully it's not too bad. Enjoy!**

**Oh, yeah, I don't own Hetalia or I wouldn't be writing on this site. **

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><p><em>Prologue: Beginnings Start at the End<em>

Eyes as blue as the clear sky, hidden above the thick gray clouds, looked up at cool, gray metal that had been twisted, heated, and shaped to form the pistol with a hint of defiance hidden in their depths. Those eyes followed the trail up the arm of the man who stood before him to his aged features that showed no emotion, no remorse, no joy, nothing at all. General Winter was as cold as the season of his namesake, and _nothing_ escaped him, not a target, not even a wayward pupil (if that's really what you would label his "students").

The sky blue eyes flicked to the man standing offset to Winter's right side. A smile was plastered on his face that never really made it to those amethyst eyes. The owner of the blue eyes whimsically wondered what Ivan would do when Winter pulled the trigger. He knew the answer before the question even finished in his mind: that smile that was just too innocent would still be there long after his body cooled for the last time.

"I warned you, Jones," Winter stated simply, his accented voice a harsh, coarse whisper like the chill of a snowy breeze. He did not repeat the warning he'd given years before. That wasn't the way the man worked; there was only one warning, and if it was not heeded, well… you ended up in Jones' shoes.

A tired smirk tugged at Alfred F. Jones' lips, his wheat colored hair plastered to his face by the heavy rainfall, "Yeah. Funny thing… I just don't listen. Figured you'd know that by now."

He spotted the ghost of a frown on Ivan's lips before they picked right back up into the same smile he despised so much. Winter didn't change at all. Winter never changed. That was the only constant in their world. He'd long ago begin to suspect that he and Ivan would be long dead before the older man aged a single year. At least he'd gotten it half right, so far.

He watched the aged man's finger slowly begin to squeeze the trigger, always precise and patient. Blue eyes remained open, the phantom smile lingering on his lips even as the rain pounded against his head and fell into his eyes, past his glasses' lenses. He glanced back at Ivan and laughter began to pour past his throat. It started slowly as snickers that quickly built into a loud, full laugh. He let his head tilt back just a bit, looking up at the sky.

Winter's finger paused, "What is so funny?"

Slowly, Alfred looked back at the old man, a full smile back on his face for the first time in weeks. Still, he kept his mouth shut for one of the first times in his life. No, he would take his secrets to his grave. Let it puzzle this man, haunt him for the rest of his cursed life.

With a low growl, the finger on the trigger resumed its achingly slow progress.

'_For you, Mattie_,' the kneeling blonde mused, '_Good luck_.'

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><p>It was the strangest thing, reliving some of the major events that brought someone to the doorstep of the Reaper. He remembered losing mother and father. He remembered taking care of Matthew while simply trying to survive on the streets of a foreign land. He could remember meeting Winter and the training he instilled in the teens' minds and the threats that kept them from openly rebelling, meeting Ivan and beginning the rivalry that was occasionally the only thing that reminded him that he was still breathing. He could remember watching his brother desperately trying to clean the blood from his hands, unshed tears in his eyes. He could remember the younger twin's refusal to continue shedding blood and the fear that tore at his heart for his brother's safety.<p>

"_No more," was the simple sentence that would seal Matthew's fate if Winter were to hear it._

_A tired smile tugged at the other blonde's lips, "You've said that, like, how many times?" _

_Matthew shook his head slowly, "I'm done, Al. No more."_

_The smiled turned into a frown and the older twin sat up from the couch, "So you're just gonna lay down and die, huh, Mattie? You're a quitter now?"_

"_What happened to the hero, eh?" Matthew shot back, "Or did you shoot him, too?"_

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><p>Matthew would be long gone, probably close to arriving at his destination in Canada. He would be safe soon, hidden by the only man who'd ever successfully escaped Winter's grasp. Everything would be fine. Only… it wouldn't be. Still, he just kept laughing.<p>

But the best part, Alfred decided right before the trigger finished its journey, was the fact that, despite everything, it felt _so_ good to be the hero instead of the villain. It was just like he imagined as a child. Well… except the part about dying. That was a bit of a bum—

_Bang!_

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><p>Two o'clock and the phone was ringing.<p>

Two in the bloody morning and the stupid phone was going on and on with its racket.

If they were important, they'd call back, Detective Arthur Kirkland decided, shoving a soft pillow over his head to muffle the infernal noise. He'd just wait to see if the phone rang again. If he fell asleep while he was waiting, well, that wasn't his problem, now was it?

Just as he began to slip back into the veil of dreams, the blasted contraption started up again. With a small growl of frustration, he threw the pillow against the headboard and slowly groped the nightstand for his phone without opening his eyes. His thumb found the talk button without much effort. "This had best be important," he snapped.

A chuckle came across the line, "_Of course, mon cher! Would I 'ave called you otherwise_?"

Arthur was sure his eye was twitching in annoyance, "It wouldn't be the first time and something tells me that it would not be the last."

Another chuckle, "_You wound me, mon ami. At least I am not a little punk who—_"

"Get to the point or I'm going back to bed," Arthur cut in.

There was an over dramatic sigh, "_Fine, fine. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted; I received a most interesting call from Antonio a few minutes ago_."

After a pause that was clearly meant for suspense, Arthur let out a hiss, "_Francis_." He shouldn't have expected any better from the journalist who'd been called in to act on behalf of Arthur's department far too many times than the Brit would have liked.

"_You are no fun, mon cher. To put this simply, a local jogger found one of Winter's men laying in a ditch several hours ago, shot through the chest,_" Francis relayed.

Arthur's emerald eyes shot open as he sat up in bed, flipping the blankets off as he began the process of stumbling around in the dark, trying to find the light switch. "Are you sure it's one of Winter's?" he demanded, finally flicking the switch and shielding his eyes.

"_Oui,_" Francis answered, "_I sent Gilbert a picture to be certain._"

The man known as General Winter had been the focus of Arthur's career as a detective. He and his small group of assassins were notorious, the best in the business. Despite being well known among in the higher classes of groups like the mafia, there was virtually no information on either Winter or his underlings. That is, until they found Gilbert. The self-proclaimed "awesome" albino somehow knew things about Winter than no one else did. If anyone knew if the person the jogger found was one of Winters, it was the German. Arthur never questioned how he had such information. He knew the likely answer, but hearing it from Gilbert would legally oblige him to act and Gilbert's information was just too valuable. That and… well… he had a way of growing on people, especially with that strange little bird that seemed to be attached to his head.

"Where is he?" Arthur asked, referring to the man in the ditch.

"'_e 'as been taken to a critical care unit 'ere in my country_," Francis answered.

Arthur frowned, "Should I get my hopes up, then?" If this man was, indeed, one of Winter's Arthur knew how difficult it would be to make him talk. Still, it could be his only chance at catching the infamous gun-for-hire and he was willing to put up with any resistance.

"_I do not know, mon cher_," Francis sighed, "_But I imagine you should come see, non? If it falls through, then I suppose I could 'ave a bit of pity on you and take you to dinner. You 'ave not put work down long enough to 'ave a bit of fun is a long time, oui?"_

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the wall, as though it were Francis, "I'd rather die than go to dinner with a frog."

He tuned Francis out for the resulting rant about "ungrateful English punks" and focused his thoughts back to the man that was obviously fighting for his life from a bullet wound to the chest. Winter's men were _never_ caught and they certainly never failed, as far as Arthur had been told. They were almost inhumanly good at their line of work.

Why, then, was one of them in a critical care unit in France?

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><p><strong>Well, there you have it, the prologue. Hopefully that wasn't too painful. ^.^ <strong>

**I think I'll have the next chapter up fairly soon (maybe even this morning), so, if you're still interested in reading after this, feel free to keep an eye out. **


	2. Chapter 1: The Wait and the Frenchman

**Okay, I'm really getting into this story, so I kind of kept writing into the early hours of the morning. Anyway, I wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed and favortied! I love the reviews. They're really nice and encouraging. **

**Once again, I hope that you enjoy and that it isn't too painful so far. Oh, and please forgive and language errors you find and feel free to point them out so that I can correct them. **

**I still haven't randomly gotten ownership of Hetalia, much to my disappointment. ^.^**

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><p><em>Chapter One:<br>_

_The Wait and the Frenchman_

Anger fingers tapped against the cold, white plastic of the lobby chair. If there was _anything_ that Arthur Kirkland hated more than waiting in a hospital for news of what could be his only lead, it was waiting in a hospital for news of what could be his only lead _in France_. It wasn't really that he had a grudge against the nation, itself, or most of its people, for that matter. It just so happened that France was the birthplace and home of one Francis Bonnefoy, renowned journalist and professional personal nuisance to one Arthur Kirkland. Said nuisance was happily babbling to a young nurse at the reception counter and laughing good naturedly as though Arthur's entire life's work wasn't hanging in the balance of one mysterious hitman's life.

"Frog, stop flirting and tell me what's happening," he finally hissed, unable to take any more of the suggestive laughter. The sterile smell and white walls were enough to drive him mad as it was. Francis just seemed to be an added catalyst to the process.

Francis glanced back at the Brit before finishing up his conversation with the receptionist and returning to Arthur, taking the seat across from him (he likely recalled the time Arthur had given him a black eye for "invading personal space"). The Frenchman leaned back in his chair and neatly placed one leg atop his opposite knee. "It seems as though your boy will live," he announced, taking his time.

Arthur let out a silent breath of relief. At least he hadn't been suffering through Francis for just a body in the morgue. "Do they know about him?" he asked.

Francis gave a curt nod, "_Oui_, and they are taking the proper precautions. From what I 'ear, though, 'e will not be going anywhere anytime soon."

One almost comically large brow rose a bit, "Just how badly was he wounded?"

Francis chuckled, "Enough to end up in critical care, _mon cher_. I am told that that is generally a good indicator that the situation is quite serious."

Arthur narrowed his emerald eyes into a deadly glare, "Shut it, frog."

Francis merely smiled, "Come along, _cher_. I am 'ungry and your assassin is going nowhere for a while, _non_? Besides, you 'ave not 'ad anything to eat and it will do you no good to starve yourself in France, the country of delectable dinning."

Arthur sighed. At least he hadn't had to endure a cooking insult yet. "I'm coming back the second they tell me he's stable," the Brit warned.

Francis kept smiling as he rose to his feet, offering Arthur a hand that the Englishman promptly refused.

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><p>As it so happened, Arthur was able to finish half of his meal (he'd found a small British-style pub run by a rather loud couple from Ireland, but Arthur wasn't going to complain as long as he got "real" food) before Francis' phone rang with the news that Winter's assassin was stable.<p>

The rest of the meal was even more awkward than the beginning. Arthur had refused to share a table with Francis and had seated himself far from the bar to avoid the temptation. Francis had been fine with the arrangement, deciding to chat with several of the patrons and refusing to eat. So Arthur sat along in the corner of the pub, eating as fast as possible while still maintaining his manners.

Once he was finished, he quickly paid the bill and grabbed Francis by the collar, dragging him back to the hospital. While Arthur could translate a few sentences in French, he was _not_ getting lost in what he saw as an insane and overly fashion obsessed country, and he definitely wasn't getting locked out of a meeting with his only lead of Winter just because he couldn't fluently speak French.

The trip back to the reception desk was quick and quiet. Francis chatted with the woman at the desk, this time seriously and often gesturing to Arthur. He had to present his official ID and wait for the woman scrutinized it for at least two minutes before smiling and handing it back. She said something to Francis who promptly translated, "We can go now."

Arthur nodded and they set off, climbing the stairs. He'd had to provide his ID once again then they made it to the proper floor. Apparently, the French police had set up a small guard detail at the end of the two halls that lead away from the room. For once, Arthur mused, the French were doing something right.

There was a strange sense of suspense building in Arthur's stomach. What would one of Winter's crew look like? Most likely, they would be fiercely intimidating. Probably somewhere around their late twenties and in prime physical condition. They would likely sport several nasty scars. Over all, the picture in his mind was something akin to a rough looking gangster out of a movie with a belligerent and malicious attitude to match.

Arthur had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed when Francis stopped in front of an unassuming brown door. He nearly bumped into the Frenchman, but managed to sidestep at the last moment. "What the blo—"

"This is it," Francis interrupted, serious for a change.

With slightly wide eyes, Arthur reached for the handle and slowly pulled it open. He heard Francis step in behind him, but he was more focused on the lump under the white blanket. The scent of sterilized equipment hit him like a punch to the nose. It was much stronger than it had been in the lobby. An annoying _beep_ echoed insistently through the entirely too white room. Yet all of those things were completely ignored as the detective took the few remaining steps towards the bed.

And his eyes narrowed, "Francis, as hilarious as this may be to you, my life's work is a very serious matter and I will not have you setting up a fake guard detail for a prank."

Francis stopped at his side, careful to keep a bit of distance between them, and frowned, crossing his arms, "I am insulted! 'ere I 'ave brought you to a lead on your case, encouraging your _obsessive_ be'avior with work, and you tell me I am playing a prank on you! You are incredibly rude, you little punk!"

Arthur threw a finger at the bed's occupant, "_That_ is just a boy! He probably can't even buy alcohol!" Perhaps that was an over exaggeration but only a small one. The boy was twenty, at best, still younger than Arthur and Francis.

"Does this shock you so badly?" Francis asked, pouting.

The truth of the matter was that the boy on the bed _did_ shock Arthur. He was fairly tall, it seemed, but obviously young. His wheat colored hair was short with a stubborn, gravity-defying cowlick. While he didn't seem to be the muscular, hulk of a creature Arthur expected, the boy sported lean, well defined muscles visible on sun-kissed arms that were pulled out of the blankets to host an IV line. One wrist was bound to the railing by a padded cuff. The most shocking thing, Arthur realized, was the clear proof that Francis hadn't been playing a prank: the bandages covering the boy's left ribcage were still turning a dark red with the splotches of blood still seeping from the wound.

Arthur found his frown deepening, "A child like that should be running errands for his mum."

Francis shrugged, a hint of sadness visible in his eyes, "Perhaps we are not all so privileged, non?" He'd seen many things in his line of work. The few times when the Frenchman was willing to stop flirting and teasing and display rare moments of clarity and insight were what made putting up with the man almost worth it.

Still, something twisted in Arthur's stomach as he leered down at the boy, "Don't forget what he is." Young or no, Arthur reminded himself, the boy before him was a trained killer and likely one of the most deadly creatures on the planet.

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><p>Alfred was dreaming. He figured it was just some stupid pre-death, dying thing. He was sitting on a bench in a park. He didn't have anywhere to go, nothing to do, no urgent business to take care to keep Winter from threatening Mattie's life. Nothing. He could hear an anthem from his childhood playing somewhere in the distance and, it was beautiful. "Land of the free, huh?" he muttered to himself. He'd wanted to return to the land of his birth as long as he could remember being away from it. For Alfred, that line held more truth to it than anyone could imagine.<p>

His peaceful, awesome dream slowly faded away. He figured that that meant he was ready to finally kick the bucket.

And then the noise stated. The stupid _beep_ that he was only partially aware of at first only grew in annoyance. '_Come on, man… Is that really necessary? I'm already dying. Isn't that bad enough?'_ he wondered, not really feeling his brows draw closer together.

Wait… Why did death smell like a hospital and, and why was everybody speaking French? '_Oh, crap!_' he hissed mentally, blue eyes snapping open to meet the blurry image (he vaguely noted that his glasses were missing) of a lighter shade of the same color. The nurse screamed about the same time he became aware of the sharp ignition of pain in his chest. That was right… Winter shot him in chest to add the insult of helplessly laying there while he bled out. Jerk.

'_Dude… this sucks_…' he told himself, groaning.

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><p>Arthur had been just outside of the room, ready to return to his hotel room when he heard the woman scream. Acting quickly on instinct, he grabbed hold of the door and threw it open, ready to face whatever had spooked the woman.<p>

When he scanned the room and found nothing out of the ordinary, the nurse pointed at the boy on the bed and shouted something in French. Arthur blinked, confused until he finally realized what had happened: the boy was awake.

Likely assuming that he was ignoring her, the nurse huffed and stormed out of the room, leaving Arthur alone with the mysterious assassin. There was a strange hammering in his chest. He'd never been so close to his goal before. At the same time, he had no idea what to expect from the boy. Obviously his assumptions had already been busted by his mere appearance. Arthur didn't even know what language the boy spoke.

He slowly took steps towards the bed, listening to the boy let out a soft groan, probably feeling the pain from his injuries. Arthur stopped roughly a foot from the bedside. Slowly, emerald eyes met the bluest pair he'd ever seen. The boy's brows were upturned, likely confused and in pain and his mouth was a straight line but, Arthur could tell he was biting at his lip.

Neither one spoke for a moment.

Unfortunately, the silence and eye contact were shattered by the door whipping opened, a rather ruffled looking Francis quickly crossing the floor. He looked down at the injured boy and smiled softly. "Parlez-vous français?" he asked.

Those large blue eyes blinked several times, clearly lost.

Francis tried again, switching languages, "¿Hablas español?"

Once again, they were met with silence and a confused look. Obviously Spanish wasn't the key language, either.

Francis tapped his chin, thinking before seemingly getting an idea. He tried again in what Arthur was sure was Russian.

The boy noticeably cringed and Arthur wasn't sure if it was from the language or his injuries, "Немного." Arthur didn't have to know much about Russian to know that the boy's pronunciation was absolutely dreadful. He clearly wasn't Russian, but would have likely picked up a bit from Winter.

"Why do you know bloody Russian?" Arthur snapped at the Frenchman.

Francis chuckled, "_Mon cher,_ I am brilliant, _non_? Besides, remember that my work takes me around the globe and I must know 'ow to pick up a date and order a decent meal wherever I am!"

A light snicker came from the boy that quickly turned into a groan. Arthur narrowed his eyes. Was this boy really one of Winter's? "Then you speak English?" Arthur deadpanned.

The boy's eyes flickered from Francis back to Arthur. "Yeah, I speak English," he answered, his speech giving away his nationality immediately.

Francis looked just as surprised as Arthur. They'd expected something a bit more… brutal than the strange blue-eyed American who looked as though he should be heading off to start college, not belonging to an international assassin's crew. And that made Arthur angry. "Are you serious?" he demanded, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Serious about what?" the American responded, looking a bit dazed and confused, likely a side effect from the pain medication, "Speakin' English? I'm doing it now, right?"

"Do you 'ave a name, _cher_?" Francis cut in, taking a step closer to the bed.

"'Course I've got a name," the American said, his eyelids slowly drooping, "Where am I?"

Didn't this man realize that he wasn't just a normal citizen who'd been the innocent victim of a gunshot wound? What gave him the right to act like he deserved the medical attention he received? Arthur's temper flared, "It doesn't bloody matter whe—"

"You are in France," Francis cut in once again, "In a 'ospital outside of Paris." Francis shot Arthur a reprimanding look as if to silently say '_That is not how to deal with this one_.'

The boy shifted as if to move his arm, only to find it trapped. Half hooded blue eyes snapped back open in what seemed to be a small panic attack that was severely muted by his injuries. His frantic eyes landed on Arthur, and for just a moment, he debated letting the poor boy free. Arthur steeled himself, though, and remembered the damage this boy had dealt.

Francis, Arthur decided, was an idiot. He fell for what was likely a trick and approached the boy, gently patting the panicking blonde's arm, "Shh, _cher_, it's alright."

Arthur narrowed his eyes as the American slowly relaxed, his eyes watching the roof and not using Francis' proximity to his advantage. "You guys are really stupid," he said softly.

Arthur raised a large brow, trying to vent his anger towards the American through his eyes, "Oh? Pray tell: how am I stupid?"

A bitter smile rested on the injured blonde's lips, "Why do you save somebody to kill 'em again?"

"What are you talking about, _cher_?" Francis asked.

"Obviously you know 'bout Winter," he pointed out, turning his gaze back to Francis, "Which means you just wanna know a few things before you ship me off to the gallows."

"Git, the gallows haven't been used in decades," Arthur snapped.

The other blonde frowned, "It's a figured of speech, dude." Arthur cringed at the… normal American word. This boy wasn't supposed to talk like a normal teenager. He was supposed to remind Arthur of the blood he'd spilt with every passing second.

Francis patted the boy's arm again with a soft smile, "Actually, _cher,_ we—"

This time, Arthur was the one who cut in, "If you cooperate, perhaps we can work out a deal that isn't too unreasonable. However, if you do not agree to give me the information I need, you are correct, I will make sure that you get what you deserve."

The boy flinched at the last sentence and Arthur scowled. He cursed the American for making him feel guilty for pointing out the obvious. Worse than that, though, was the lazy smile that settled on his face as his blue eyes started shutting once again, "I don't think killing me would be enough for that, British dude." Arthur bit down hard on his lip. So what if he knew what he'd done was wrong? That didn't do anything to _right_ the wrongs done in the name of money.

The room was quiet for a while. During the silence, Arthur noticed the American's eyes slowly closing further and further with each blink. Arthur was just as angry with the boy who seemed far too innocent to be a killer as he was with Francis for standing next to him as though the American were a dear friend, recovering from a nearly fatal accident.

"Alfred F. Jones," the American finally muttered, breaking the silence.

Arthur blinked, "Pardon?"

"My name," he explained, his eyes completely shut now, "And I'll tell ya whatever you wanna know… But I wanna help you. I wanna… be a hero, too."

Arthur's scowl deepened, "How can a paid murder be a hero?"

"Donno," the bo-Alfred replied, his speech even more lazy than before, "Wanna… try." He was out like a light.

Francis walked back to Arthur's side, his eyes still watching the sleeping American. "I think 'e was being honest," he admitted.

"I don't care if he honestly believes the rubbish he's spewing," Arthur snapped, "He's a killer."

Francis turned his blue eyes down at Arthur, setting a hand on his shoulder, "So are you, _cher_. And what is the difference, hm? That you 'ave the legal rights to do so if the situation permits it? Perhaps you should not be so quick to judge."

Arthur came within a hair's breadth of punching the Frenchman in the nose. "I'm not a hired assassin," he hissed.

Francis shrugged, "No, you are not. All I am saying is that there is a reason that 'e was dying out in a field somewhere and is willing to fight against Winter. Perhaps you should look into this, _oui_?" Arthur turned his eyes back to Alfred, refusing to speak. He was _not_ going to admit that the French journalist had a point. Francis chuckled and patted Arthur's shoulder, "I am going to get a cup of coffee."

Arthur didn't follow him. Instead, he stayed behind to try and put the pieces of the mystery together. After several minutes, he decided to make a quick call; he was going to find everything there was to know about this Alfred F. Jones.

**Okay, so here's another chapter done in the past twenty-four hours, which is kind of freaking me out… O.o Anyway, hopefully you guys enjoyed this. I think I'll be posting another chapter fairly soon since the writing bug for this has hit me pretty hard. **


	3. Chapter 2: Hamburgers and Propositions

**Hello, everyone! I'm hoping that you're still enjoying this story since, as I've said before, the writing bug for this one has hit me hard (which should be apparent by the fact that I've uploaded two chapters in one day .). Once again, thank you all for your reviews and favorites, they're really encouraging. I also wanted to send out a special thanks to Nayli28 for catching my Spanish boo boo. **

***Checks mailbox* Nope, still don't own Hetalia. **

**^.^ Without further stalling, here's the next chapter. **

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><p>Chapter Two:<p>

_Of Hamburgers and Propositions  
><em>

"_You are stupid. You know that, _да?" _the childlike voice cooed softly as Alfred heard footsteps approaching the lone, barred window._

"_That's what I hear, commie," he shot back, halfheartedly, "Wanna tell me what I did this time?" Other than the obvious snapping back at Winter, which could account for the aching from the new splotches of dark violet bruises he could feel swelling up on his ribs, back, and neck. _

_Thick boots built for heavy snow softly shifted, stepping quietly towards Alfred. Still, the blonde defiantly kept still, lying on his stomach with his head turned to the wall inches from his nose. "You make this much more difficult than it should be," the Russian accented voice explained, ignoring the insult. They were far past the point where the petty insults they traded really bothered either one. _

_Alfred could feel amethyst eyes surveying the injuries on his back. He didn't care, much. Ivan, too, carried the scars from failure to complete a mission in a satisfactory manner and defiance (though he carried far less than the American for the later reason). "This shouldn't _be _at all," he snapped, closing blue eyes. _

_The bed dipped, signaling the Russian's taking a seat a good foot from Alfred. "Perhaps," he conceded, "But it is, and you should learn to accept it. Defying orders will do nothing but kill you." _

_The room was quiet, now. It was just the two of them, and Alfred didn't want to think about his current lack of a twin or the plan he'd set into motion. He almost wanted to laugh at Ivan's statement. He was already hanging under a death sentence for defying orders; it was just a matter for when Winter found out that Mattie wasn't coming back this time. That was… if the "awesome" German did his "awesome" job right. Alfred had faith in him. He had to. _

"_Ivan," he said, simply. He knew that being addressed by name was enough to make the Russian give his undivided attention. They _never_ spoke each other's names. It was commie and capitalist, insults from a history that had mostly faded into memory and homelands that neither one really remembered, some strange game they played to survive. "Haven't you ever wondered what it'd be like to be the good guy?" he asked._

_There was a deep chuckle from the other man before he stood and walked back to the door. Alfred heard him pause as his hand grasped the handle. "In this house, a 'good guy' is a dead one. But, I wonder…" he began, oddly unguarded, "what it would be like to stand in a field of sunflowers that weren't stained red and wilted by frost." _

_Minutes, maybe hours, after the Russian left, Alfred rolled onto his back and proceeded to laugh hysterically, wishing so desperately that he remembered how to cry._

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><p>Arthur eyed the stack (more realistically, few sheets) of paper that was neatly pushed into a cream colored folder in the hands of the man before him. "What is that?" he asked, pointing to the folder, clearly understanding exactly what it was. It was the information he'd requested. Arthur was just wondering where the rest of the stack had jumped up and run off to.<p>

The perpetual smile on the Spaniard's face was still in place, "This is it, _amigo_. Trust me, this was hard enough to find. Do you have any clue how many American Joneses there are? It's like trying to weed through a forest to find one tomato."

Of course, everything with Antonio Carriedo was somehow or another linked to tomatoes. The man even had a mouse pad in the shape of a tomato that Arthur was forced to see each and every time he went to the Spaniard for information. Well… every time but this one. Arthur was _not_ leaving France without his prisoner.

"Are you losing your touch, then?" Arthur snapped. The two had been fierce rivals in the last few years of high school and into their adulthood. That had been when Antonio was on the other side of the law. Oddly enough, the Spaniard had just given up one day and waltzed right into an Italian police station to turn himself in, claiming he was "turning over a new leaf for a sweet little tomato." He'd served out a sentence that was lessened greatly by his usefulness to law enforcement and everyone's (Arthur being one of the few exceptions) inability to treat the Spaniard with anything but kindness.

Antonio laughed, good naturedly, "Sorry, _amigo_, but this really is all that exists on the guy. Whoever he is, someone didn't want him to be found."

Arthur sighed lightly and took the file with a nod, "Francis has been searching for you since he heard your flight arrived a few hours ago."

"Good," Antonio replied, turning down the corner, shoving his hands in his back pants while he whistled an oddly happy tune for a hospital. Arthur decided that he didn't even want to know what kinds of trouble Francis and Antonio would get into. All he knew was that the Spaniard's presence would keep Francis from bothering him while he tried to work.

He opened the door to the room and took a seat in the chair he'd set up next to the bed. He glanced at the only other occupant in the sterile room. His assassin hadn't woken up since their first encounter two days prior. Apparently, it was very normal for someone who'd come so close to death that his heart had literally quit beating twice before he stabilized.

Arthur sighed before opening the cream folder to see just what Antonio managed to dig up. There were a grand total of five pages.

Arthur picked up the top page, a small article from a Russian newspaper that had been printed from a computer. A translation line-by-line was written in Antonio's neat penmanship next to the printed article. It detailed the death of a pair of doctors, one American and one Canadian who had gone to the frozen country to preform charity medical work in remote towns. Apparently the couple was married and had no family that officials could find and, their two small children had gone missing after the car accident. What interested Arthur the most, however, were the names of the doctors and the pictures of the dead couple. Allie Jones (she didn't take her husband's name) wore what seemed to be blonde hair in a ponytail with an oddly familiar cowlick that was a bit less pronounced sticking up and a cheerful smile. Arthur immediately knew why Antonio had included the article. The woman bore a strong resemblance to the hospitalized assassin and carried the same surname. Chances were the Russian article detailed the deaths of Alfred's parents.

He sat the article at the back of the stack before scanning the next item. It was a list of names that was labeled at the top "aliases." The boy had quite the imagination, but there was one common thread that Arthur would have missed if he hadn't been forced to take his younger brother, Peter, to an obscene amount of superhero movies: each alias was the secret identity of a superhero. Arthur scowled, suddenly disappointed at the blonde youth. What kind of assassin idealized heroes? Perhaps it was just some cruel joke. That was the only explanation Arthur could think of that made sense.

He shuffled through the alias page, fairly bored. The next page was a color photo print from what looked to be a security camera. Arthur calmly slid his eyes from the body, clearly dead with a bullet between the eyes, to the familiar blue eyes that glanced up at the camera. If the features weren't identical, even down to the perfect shade of blue, Arthur would have never believed that the zombie (he decided that was the best term to describe the expression, or lack thereof, on the boy's face) was actually Alfred. A coal black handgun was pointed expertly up at the camera, ready to end its existence as easily as he obviously had the other man in the photo. Two tiny drops of blood decorated his face, just below his left eye, like some primal type of war paint. Still, if Arthur didn't know better… he would have said that the look in the man's eyes was something to be pitied: regret, pain, and resignation all disguised expertly under a cold experience. But it wasn't expert enough to hide it from Arthur; he'd been trained to read such tiny details.

Next, he found a neat copy of a birth certificate with "Alfred Franklin Jones" printed neatly across top with the names from the articles printed in the mother and father slots.

He sighed, shuffling to the next page which was just a piece of paper with Antonio's neat writing on it:

"_Arthur, _

_From what I can find, Alfred F. Jones dropped off of the map sometime about thirteen years ago. If those really were his parents, he should be roughly nineteen, maybe twenty. His parents separated when he and his brother were young. The brother went with the father to Canada and he stayed with his mother in America. The trip to Russia was supposed to be in celebration of their getting back together (that's kind of sad, amigo, and I charge extra for depression). I can't find a whole lot more than that and his aliases, but I'll keep digging. Sorry about that. I'll send you a tomato sometime to make up for it. _

_Hope you choke on a scone,_

_Always your rival and occasionally your friend,_

_Antonio._

_PS You may want to look into the brother, Matthew Williams. He's as much of a ghost as your Alfred._

_PPS By the way, do you know if a man's depression can affect his tomatoes?"  
><em>

Arthur felt his eye twitching at the last half of the letter. Antonio, he decided, was an idiot. But that wasn't the point. The point was that the boy's case was starting to become a bit more complex. If Winter had gotten ahold of him at six or seven, the chances were in favor of the theory that the boy didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Still… Arthur couldn't help but thinking that there had to have been _something_ the American could have done instead of just killing, especially as an adult. A tiny, treacherous voice in the back of his mind continued to remind him of Francis' warning.

Someone had meant to kill the boy while still letting him suffer. Obviously , he'd done something to tick somebody off.

* * *

><p>Alfred groaned as he slowly cracked his eyes open, feeling much more alert than the last time he'd managed to get his eyes open. He hated dreaming anymore. He was glad to be awake, even if he did have to deal with the aching from the bullet wound. Hearing papers shuffling, he managed to turn his head towards the sound to find the blurred image of the blonde, British man from before. His neat shirt and sweater atop of dark dress pants along with his demeanor gave him away as some sort of law enforcement officer. Alfred had dealt with them before, most of the time, just smiling and walking past with a casual wave and the occasional salute. It was the only way he could show them how much he envied them.<p>

Sometime during his visual inspection, the other man's emerald eyes drifted up to meet his own blue pair. "You're finally awake," he stated.

Alfred managed to crack a smile, "Awake and starving."

The man scowled at him. He sat a cream colored folder on the nightstand and propped up one of his legs on his opposite knee, choosing to eye the injured man. Alfred frowned at the scrutiny. He wasn't some weird experiment in a jar or something. "I have some questions," the Brit stated.

"I told ya my condition: I get to help you go after Winter," Alfred responded, looking serious for once, "Some food would be nice, too. No Russian crap, either."

Those emerald eyes narrowed dangerously, "I hardly think you're in the position to be presenting me with conditions."

Alfred grinned, "Trust me, British dude, I'm the only person alive who can tell ya what you wanna know. Why would you kill your only lead? That'd just be stupid, and somethin' tells me you're not as dumb as you look."

Anger tinted the man's cheeks red. "I can't just let you go," he hissed, "And I'm not stupid."

Alfred laughed until pain blossomed in his chest. Apparently laughter was going to be off limits for a while. When the pain subsided, he turned back to Arthur, "In case you didn't notice, I'm not goin' anywhere."

Arthur's eyes narrowed even more. If looks could kill, Alfred should have been dead for the second time in… well, he wasn't really sure how long it'd been since he passed out on the raining ground, desperately gasping for air that wasn't just enough and clawing at the mud as if to use the Earth itself as a lifeline. "We'll see," the official said, shifting a bit, "You work for General winter?"

Alfred snorted, "If you can call it that, yeah."

A comically large brow lifted, "Explain."

Alfred rolled his eyes, "I'm pretty sure you don't call forced labor a daytime job."

"And just how are you _forced_ to work for Winter?" the interrogation continued

Alfred frowned again, tearing his eyes from the other man. He didn't want to think about Mattie. That meant he had to think about what would happen if Gilbert didn't get to Matthew before Winter did. Surely the plan worked. Gilbert may have been brash, but he wasn't stupid; he knew what he was doing and Alfred just had to trust that his brother made it.

"It's a long story," Alfred finally answered.

The other man's scowl deepened, "Don't worry; I have all the time in the world. Besides, I head that you won't be going anywhere for a while."

A light scowl tainted Alfred's features, "Anybody ever told you that you're a jerk?"

Alfred could tell, even without his glasses, that the other blonde was biting his lip in order to keep from shouting. "I seriously suggest you give me the answers I need, Mr. Jones," he seethed, "Your life quite literally depends on how well you cooperate."

"In case you didn't notice, dude, I kinda already faced one execution," Alfred shot back, uncharacteristically sour with the man who seemed especially built to make him angry, "Listen, buddy, you don't scare me and, you defiantly can't intimidate me. Prance your little pansy self back to your desk and file some papers, 'cause I think you're forgetting that you're talkin' to somebody who's been _expendable_ for thirteen out of the nineteen years of his life. Come back and talk to me when you've been in some real danger. Alright?"

After a good two minutes of a rather explicit rant, the Brit stormed out of the door in a fury, slamming it behind him. Alfred wished he could curl his hands behind his head and lounge. Instead, he glared down at the cuff that prevented him from doing so as though he'd suddenly gained heat-ray vision.

Just who did that guy think he was, anyway? Alfred tugged at the wrist, pulling as hard as he could without hurting himself. After a few angry minutes, he gave up with a light sigh and stared at the roof, wishing he was asleep again. Even nightmares were better than that guy.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, sleep wasn't going to come. Alfred stayed awake, aching, angry, and worried. He wasn't sure how long he'd been alone with his thoughts when the door opened next. He recalled the blonde Frenchman from the last time he'd been awake. At least he didn't seem nearly as bad as the Brit who Alfred was sure was just <em>trying<em> to make him angry.

As soon as his nose caught the smell of food, his stomach rumbled to life. The Frenchman smiled softly and Alfred found himself returning the gesture. "I was told that this was okay," he said in his heavily accented voice, holding up a red and white bag, "It was the only American thing that I could find on such short notice."

Alfred couldn't help but glance down at the restraint on his wrist, but he quickly turned his eyes back up at the Frenchman who was now at his bedside. "Thanks, dude," he said, "I'm starving."

He hated having to have help sitting up. Alfred had always been resistant to any sort of aid and, on top of that, the feeling of helplessness that was welling up inside him left a bitter taste in his mouth.

When he finally managed to lean his back against the headboard, his eyes found the window. It was raining again, he noticed. "'ere you are, _cher_," the Frenchman offered, tearing his attention from the window.

Alfred took the fast food bag with a grin and fished out a burger, all with his free hand. He managed to peal the paper back before he stared in on the food as though he'd been starved for weeks. He knew the Frenchman was watching him with shocked, and likely disgusted, eyes, but he really didn't care. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd gotten to enjoy a decent burger.

When he finally glanced at the other blonde (after the burger was gone), he was a bit surprised to find the man chuckling, "Per'aps you should take your time with the rest, non?"

Alfred paused in his meal, eyeing the man before him, "So…what? You supposed to be the good cop?"

He laughed and shook his head, "I should 'ope not since I am not even a _cop_. I am just 'ere to make sure that little Arthur does not let his obsession get the better of him."

Alfred shrugged, reaching for the fries, "So, I gave you my name. Fair's only fair."

"But, of course. I am Francis Bonnefoy, a pleasure," he introduced, holding out a hand. Alfred stared at it for a minute before he finally settled his free hand into the handshake.

"Yeah, I guess so," Alfred said with a smile. Mattie was somewhere safe, starting his first chance at a normal life and Alfred had somehow managed to survive a bullet from Winter's own gun. Maybe things _were_ actually beginning to look up.

Well, the joy couldn't last forever… The door opened and the British man stalked in, his glare trained on Alfred, who currently had a mouth full of fries. He promptly glared at Francis for a moment before returning his attention to Alfred as he crossed the room. He stopped at the American's bedside, his arms crossed over his chest and an embarrassed blush on his cheeks, "My behavior was not that befitting a detective. I do hope that you realize that you are the most infuriating man I have ever met."

"Likewise, buddy," Alfred chimed in during the pause.

The detective scowled, but otherwise ignored it, "I have made it my personal goal to bring Winter in, and you are the closet I have ever been."

Alfred felt his lips twist into a smile, "I forgive you."

Emerald eyes widened as they snapped from the floor to Alfred. The American decided that shock with a hint of outrage was a good look for the Brit. "I was not—"

"It doesn't matter," Alfred cut in, a smile still on his face, "I wanna help you, British dude. More than ya probably realize. So, you can let me out of this thing," he pulled at his restrained arm, "and I'll tell you anything you wanna know. Heck, you can kill me when we're done. But I'm going after Winter with you."

"Are you insane?" the Brit snapped, "How do I know you aren't trying to find a way back home so you can ambush me and escape."

Confidence oozed from Alfred's smile, "Way I see it, you don't really have much of a choice. If you're so obsessed with Winter, you know he's got some freakin' nasty traps and spooks. I can spot 'em from a mile away. You need me or you'll end up just another body sunken in an icy pond in his back yard."

The Brit bit at his lip, obviously thinking. "I will need to consult with my superiors," he finally sighed.

There was a tense silence in the room before Alfred's smile grew into his award-winning grin. He held out his free hand, "What's your name, British dude?"

"Arthur," he said, leaving off his surname as he glared down at the hand, refusing to take it.

Alfred pouted before returning to his fries, "Well, Artie, this likes like the start of an awesome partnership."

If there was ever a single moment in Arthur's career when he debated quitting and settling down in a cozy home back in England to write novels, that was it. He knew of a fact that Ludwig was _not_ going to be happy with the prisoner's demands. But, then again, when was Ludwig ever actually happy? Arthur just hoped that Feliciano was nearby when he finally decided to make the call.

* * *

><p><strong>So, there's another chapter down. Apparently, this is going to be one of the longest fics I've ever written. O.o Anyway, I hope you all are enjoying and all of that. And, once again, thanks for all of the really nice reviews. I think they're fueling me to write faster than usual… <strong>


	4. Chapter 3: Limited Freedom

**How's it going everyone? Well, I decided to go ahead and work on another chapter since I had a bit of free time left over. ^.^ Anyway, once again, thank you for the reviews and favorites. They're really amazing and I kind of didn't expect this story to actually be good. XD Anyway, once again, thank you all for reading!**

**Glowstick145 I don't think I've ever updated this quickly before, but I really got into this storyline. It's pretty neat to actually keep up with predicted updates for a change. XD**

**Nayli28 I'm glad you're enjoying it! Please, keep the reviews coming. They definitely aren't annoying. It's just the opposite, actually. ^.^**

**Skeptikitten I tend to get really paranoid about my handling of the characters, so I really appreciate the review. But, you're right; I should probably go beta hunting soon. **

**Yeah… Still don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Three:<em>

Limited Freedom

Ludwig was definitely angry. Well, angrier than usual. Arthur suspected that it was partially due to the fact that Feliciano, the Italian file clerk, was on vacation, visiting his brother. "_Does he not know that he is not in the position to be making any sort of demand from us? Vhat vere you thinking, Kirkland?_" the German ranted.

Arthur sighed heavily, "It's not like I told him we would comply. I wouldn't have even brought this to you if he didn't actually have a point; we have no idea how to deal with Winter." He had to grit his teeth to admit it, though. Arthur Kirkland did _not_ take well to admitting that the situation was not under control.

Ludwig's sigh echoed over the phone line. Arthur could almost see him pushing back his blonde hair. "_I know."_ They were both silent for a while, each one debating what to do with the wheat-haired assassin sitting in the room to two levels about Arthur (cell reception at the higher levels of the building was poor). "_If he escapes, Kirkland, this will come down on your head. Do you understand me?" _Ludwig finally responded.

"Somehow, I was hoping that you would just tell me to ship him off to prison," Arthur groaned lightly, "What am I to do with him?"

"_Place a tracker on the boy's ankle and do not let him out of your sight. Gather as much information as you can and ve will meet privately in person vhen I am not busy_," the German instructed, "_I don't care vhere you take him, just keep him hidden. Ve do not know if Vinter knows that he is even alive and that could be a valuable asset in time. Keep him occupied and, make him blend in. I vant no official records that Vinter can track. As far as anyone is concerned, Alfred F. Jones died three days ago_."

"I understand," Arthur responded, resisting the urge to sigh again. That was just his luck: stuck with some teenage murderer who paraded around under the names of popular superheroes.

* * *

><p>Arthur only returned to the room after a long walk in the rain. Having been born and raised in England, he, unlike Francis, was well aware of the fact that he wouldn't melt. Besides, the rain managed to calm him down and helped clear his head. Ludwig was generally very good a deciding what needed to be done to plan for the long run. Generations of military prowess ran in his family, and the new scion of the family honored his ancestors quite well. It was amazing thing, really, the German's intuition. Still, Arthur wasn't too thrilled about having to babysit.<p>

At the same time, this was his chance to gather as much information on General Winter as he possibly could. That, in itself, was almost worth it. _Almost_.

He returned to the hospital, feeling just a bit lighter. When he finally made it to the American's room, he felt as though he could be the perfect gentleman and put up with any nuisance the boy threw at him. Luckily, Antonio had dropped by to pick Francis up for a night of "brotherly bonding at the expense of others," leaving Arthur with the mysterious Alfred.

The American was still sitting up in bed, looking out of the rainy window. He didn't even turn his head to acknowledge Arthur's presence. Something told Arthur that he'd known he was coming before the door even opened. "Wanna know somethin' funny?" he asked, still watching the window, "This is the most trapped I've ever been, but this window doesn't have any bars on it."

Something stirred in Arthur's stomach and he promptly squashed it like a bug, "I don't follow."

Blue eyes flickered to green and a smile curled up on the American's lips, "It's nothin' important, Artie. You can ask me those questions now, if you want."

Arthur scowled at the nickname, but didn't say a word about it. He was the better man, he had no doubts about that, and he was going to prove it. Instead, he raised a brow, focusing on the latter sentence, "I was under the impression that you were not speaking until your requests were accepted."

Alfred's eyes shifted down to his own lap, "Yeah, well, I was thinking about that; I guess it doesn't matter who gets Winter, as long as somebody does."

Arthur abandoned the subject of the boy's change of heart and took his usual seat. He pulled out the cream colored folder and began to thumb through the pages. "You really are something of a ghost," he commented, "I had the best informant in Europe looking for anything that could pertain to you. He found two documents, a photo, and a few of your aliases and nothing more."

Alfred's blue eyes shot back up to Arthur, a bit of shock and curiosity coloring their depths, "What'd you find?"

Arthur frowned, "What does it matter?"

If the boy was capable of pleading, he was doing a fine job with those sky-colored eyes. "Come on," he said, so close to begging, it was pathetic, "I've gotta know. Something. Anything."

Arthur wasn't sure what processed him to do it, but he reached inside the folder and plucked the American birth certificate out and handed it over. It could give nothing away, really. Besides, it wasn't as though it didn't technically belong to the youth anyway.

Said youth took the page with his free hand, wide eyes scanning the surface while he settled it in his lap. "Is this really…?" he trailed off, not taking his eyes from the gift. Once again, that strange feeling stirred in Arthur's stomach and, once again, he crushed it down. A soft smile grew on the American's features, filling his eyes with the warmth the sun provided after a long storm. It was only then that the Englishman noted how empty the other smiles the boy shot off were; none of them ever really warmed his eyes like the one he was witnessing now.

"It's just a birth certificate," Arthur pointed out.

Finally, the full radiance of the boy's smile turned up to Arthur, sun-kissed fingers carefully clinging to the page as though it would shatter into pieces if he wasn't careful. "Yeah… But it means that I _exist_."

* * *

><p>Arthur had quickly excused himself to go and chase down a cup of tea. Alfred didn't really care, though. His focus was trained on the unassuming paper in his hands. He read off the names that he hadn't seen or heard spoken in thirteen years. He knew the detective had no idea what he was talking about, but, once again, Alfred didn't really care. He didn't think that the man realized just how lucky the little piece of paper was to survive. General Winter wiped away anything and everything that existed on his underlings. Usually, nothing remained. As Arthur had aptly put it, they were ghosts. They didn't exist.<p>

But the page in his hands told him otherwise. Alfred F. Jones had been born in a hospital in New York City on July 4 Allie Jones and Jonathan Williams. He'd _belonged_ to someone once. And that was almost enough to choke him.

The door opened and Arthur returned with a cup of tea. He took his place in his usual seat, emerald eyes as serious as ever. "I spoke with my superior," he informed Alfred.

The younger man's heart skipped a beat and the monitor caught it, though neither of them brought it up. "Oh, yeah?" Alfred responded, "What'd he say?"

"I am to make sure that you stay a ghost as long as you're within my line of sight," the detective explained, sipping his tea, "You are to blend in and relay as much information possible before we plan our next course of action."

Alfred was honestly surprised. When he'd made the offer, he really hadn't expected them to take it. He forced a nod, "Sounds good." Almost anything sounded good to him at the moment.

"Now, I believe I asked you just how General Winter was supposedly forcing you to work of him," Arthur pointed out, getting down to business.

Alfred nodded, strangely compliant while he looked down at the paper in his lap, his fingers still curled around the edges, "He usually takes in kids in pairs. It's pretty easy to control somebody if you've got the only other they care about held hostage." He'd had Mattie and Ivan had his sisters.

He saw Arthur's frown deepen from the corner of his eyes, even with blurry vision. "I see," he responded, "I assume that he has this mysterious twin of yours?"

Alfred bit at his lip. What was the real harm in telling him what he wanted to know? Arthur wouldn't be able to find Mattie. Besides, Alfred was fairly certain he'd lose the tiny bit of stability they'd found if he didn't answer. He finally shook his head, "No, I got Mattie out. That's probably why he shot me; he couldn't control me anymore. Winter doesn't deal with liabilities."

Arthur nodded, taking another sip of his tea. There was something oddly intriguing about the dignified motion that forced Alfred to watch. Arthur asked him several questions about Winter's habits and tactics. Alfred took pleasure in reveling every secret Winter had kept buried for so long in as much detail as he could manage.

Seemingly satisfied with the answers, Arthur was quiet for a minute, likely mulling over the new information in his head. Finally, he spoke up, "That's enough for now, I think."

Alfred nodded in agreement, the pain medication slowly playing tricks on his eyelids again. Arthur had his hand on the door handle when Alfred began to speak, "I wasn't lying, ya know? About wanting to help."

"Revenge isn't going to solve anything," Arthur said, not bothering to look back.

The younger blonde let out a short laugh (he'd learned how to time it to stop just before he hurt himself), "Dude, revenge is the last thing on my mind."

"Oh?" Arthur asked, "And just what is it that you think to accomplish?"

If he'd looked over his shoulder, he would have seen another small smile filled with a hint of warmth, "Redemption."

Arthur's scowl deepened, "Then I suggest you keep dreaming, Mr. Jones. How could a murderer find what a saint could not?" He walked out of the door, shutting it tight behind him. If he'd taken the time to glance at the teen on the bed, he would have seen the thin trail of blood that leaked from the younger man's lip from biting into the flesh a bit too hard.

That night, Alfred dreamed of drowning a lake that no light could penetrate, gasping and clawing desperately for air only heave and choke for the oxygen that had abandoned him. He woke up in a cold sweat, unable to return to sleep.

* * *

><p>Days past with a fairly dull routine: the nurses would come and make sure Alfred's wound was healing properly, Arthur would arrive just after lunch and engage in his interrogation (if one could even call it that) that lasted up until roughly four or five at night, then he would leave and Alfred would fall into a haze of nightmares only to wake up and wait for the process to begin again. Alfred wasn't sure how many days passed when the detective entered the room wearing a fairly sour expression on his face and a bag at his side; something was about to change.<p>

He made sure to close the door, as he always did, and took his seat. "We're leaving today," Arthur explained.

"Awesome," Alfred responded, "I think I'm gonna go crazy if I have to count the tiles again."

A large brow rose a bit, "I hardly believe that you have the patience to do so."

Alfred laughed, ignoring intent of the insult, "Yeah, well, it turns out you start to do weird things when you're cooped up." Even before the hospital, he had been all too familiar with the effects of prolonged exposure to a single space. He shivered at the memory and quickly surprised it before Arthur caught the change in demeanor.

Said Brit was too busy fishing around in his bag for something to notice. He finally produced a bracelet-type band that Alfred scowled at. "This," Arthur explained, gesturing to it, "is the only way that I am going to let you out of that." He pointed to the irksome restraint on Alfred's arm.

Said blonde muttered something too quiet to be deciphered and used his foot to pull back the blankets to expose the softly tanned flesh of a foot and ankle. It was humiliating and, though it granted him mobility, he could already tell that the little thing was his new official enemy. A thought struck him and he chuckled a bit, "I'm naming it Ivan 2."

Arthur frowned, obviously not following Alfred's logic. It seemed that he'd learned not to question some of the seemingly random comments the younger man made since they generally weren't important. When Arthur began to place Ivan 2 around his ankle, Alfred fought the urge to rip his leg back and kick the other blonde squarely in the face. Alfred did _not_ like being trapped. He drew in a silent breath and looked away. It was cold, he realized, but the Brit's fingers were warm when they accidently came into contact with skin. Ivan 2 didn't even _click_.

When Arthur returned to his side in this peripheral, he finally looked down at the unassuming black band before quickly turning his eyes back to Arthur. The Brit was digging in the bag again, and Alfred half suspected that he was about to pull out some new form of humiliation. Instead, he produced a key.

The Brit picked up Alfred's captive wrist with strangely gentle fingers and carefully unlocked the infernal thing before dropping his arm like it oozed some sort of agonizing toxin. After days of being stuck to the railing, the skin around his wrist was red and lightly irritated. The air felt wonderfully good on the flesh. Alfred rubbed it absently and grinned, refusing to thank Arthur.

His next question was voiced aloud by Arthur, "Can you stand?"

* * *

><p>Arthur honestly began to wonder if Alfred had been born just to prove him wrong. When he'd asked the question, he'd meant it as a mere courtesy. After all, someone recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest and suffered through being bedridden for days was supposed to stumble around like an infant. Alfred just had to be the exception to that rule. The only real struggle was sitting up, as usual, and stretching the muscles that had been injured. With that, the American nimbly slipped his long legs over the edge of the bed, using his hands to support him on his perch.<p>

The second shock was Alfred's actual height sized up against his own. While the difference wasn't _too_ great, the younger man was built a bit sturdier than Arthur's rather slim build and it added up. The American only stumbled a bit before he managed to get a grip on gravity. Arthur looked up into blue eyes were closer than they ever had been before. The moment the American got a stable footing, the Brit shoved the bag at his chest, nearly knocking him back. Alfred took hold of it with a questioning look.

"Hurry up and get dressed," Arthur instructed, turning to head towards the door, "We'll leave soon." With that, he shut the door behind him and waited in the hall. Francis, having started his career as a fashion colonist (which was a subject the Frenchman took way too much pride in, in Arthur's humble opinion), had demanded that he be the one to find the American decent clothes, claiming that Arthur would put him in something that would only allow him to blend in with crowds over the age of seventy.

Arthur didn't really care what he American wore. In his mind, nothing could take away the picture of the murderer from Antonio's photograph that was engraved in the Brit's mind. He was a wolf, no matter how well he wore a sheep's skin.

The door slipped open and Alfred came out with a grin. If the man before him had any other background, Arthur would have admitted that Francis did a fairly good job. The deep blue hoodie matched sky blue eyes without outshining his wheat-colored hair. The jeans and sneakers made him actually look his own nationality. However, the thin wire frames that had been found on the scene seemed to add a level of maturity to the young man's face that, once again, shocked Arthur.

"Okay, dude, I'm ready to go," Alfred announced, still smiling.

Arthur sighed. This was going to be one of the longest cases in his life. Of that, he was sure.

* * *

><p>The first stop had been to a fast food joint that radiated an odor that made Arthur instantly sick to his stomach. He'd only stopped to shut the obnoxious American up (he had been pointing out random land marks as though they were the most beautiful things on the planet nonstop since they left), but he drew the line at ordering six hamburgers, two orders of fries, a chicken nugget meal, and a large soda. Instead, he simply brought two burgers, fries, and a drink in broken, horribly accented French.<p>

At least his plan worked and the American was silent until they arrived at official building where they were scheduled to meet Ludwig. Arthur was immediately relieved to see a cheerful, bubbly Italian standing next to the imposing German in a strange contrast. Feliciano was the only living creature capable of twisting Ludwig around his little finger.

Alfred was still too busy looking around the city, perched with his hands holding onto the window like a dog, looking way too much like a real tourist from Arthur's taste. He didn't even noticed they'd stopped until Arthur walked around to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door, nearly sending the American tumbling down onto the sidewalk face first.

Alfred quickly righted himself and climbed out of the car, following Arthur up to the pair of Europeans they were meeting with.

Alfred laughed nervously, rubbing at the back of his head as Ludwig leered at the younger man, quickly assessing him as though he were picking apart a machine and putting it back together again just to see how it worked. Feliciano joined in Alfred's laughter, adding a "Ve~" or two to the chorus.

"Come vith me," the German instructed, heading inside the building. Arthur waited for Alfred to follow first before trailing inside behind the other three. Ludwig led them up to a small room at the back of a long hall. The only furnishing in the tan room was a round table and a few chairs. Ludwig gestured for the others to take a seat before he took one of his own.

Once again, Ludwig observed the youngest occupant of the room with the eyes of a hawk. "_You_ are one of General Vinters?"

Alfred laughed as though he could defuse the situation with it, "Yeah, I've been told that it's kinda shocking at first."

Lighter blue eyes narrowed dangerously, "Vhy are you laughing, Mr. Jones? Is your position that entertaining to you?"

The laughter stopped immediately and Arthur watched as Alfred visibly deadened almost every emotion on face. Some treacherous voice in the back of his mind told him that the young man wasn't meant to look like that. He silenced it just as he'd squished the strange feelings that twisted in the pit of his stomach (though Alfred attempted to deflect any question that wasn't a generalization about Winter's "students," he'd answered a rare few, and Arthur refused to admit that the feeling was sympathy, settling for disgust instead).

"No," Alfred answered simply.

"Ve~, Ludwig, you don't have to be mean," Feliciano broke into the conversation, his carefree smile still on his face, despite the tense air. The Italian opened his eyes and looked over Alfred in an odd contrast to the dissecting look Ludwig had shot him earlier. "I'm Feliciano Vargas," he introduced, stretching to hold out a hand to the American, "Nice to meet you!"

Arthur didn't want to admit that the bit of surprise that preceded a warm smile on the American's face gave him a sense of relief. The younger men shook hands. "Yeah, man. Nice to meet you, too," Alfred responded.

Arthur noticed Ludwig's eyes soften. The American likely wasn't away of the brownie points he'd just stacked up with Ludwig for not mocking or threatening the small Italian. It still wouldn't be enough for the German to really treat the boy any differently, but it would likely lessen the harsh verbal blows Ludwig would have dealt.

Said German laced his fingers together and propped his elbow up on the table, "It is time to discuss business." When no one protested and Feliciano straightened up in his seat, he continued, "You do realize that under any normal circumstances, there is no doubt vhat your fate would be. Ja?"

Alfred nodded, "J- I mean, yeah. I know. But I guess none of this is normal, though, huh?"

Ludwig shook his head, "Indeed, it is not which puts us in what you might call a situation."

Arthur could see Alfred fighting to not snicker. Having been accustomed to Ludwig's interesting expressions, Arthur was fairly immune to them. At one point, however, he'd struggled to get to his car before he burst into laughter. "Right, I might call it a situation," Alfred playfully agreed, laughter visible in his eyes.

Ludwig either didn't get it or didn't care (most likely the latter), "Ve have decided that, instead, you are much more useful alive and vhere you prove that usefulness. You are going to be Mr. Kirkland's charge until the time vhen Vinter is captured. You vill give him your full cooperation or you vill be spending your nights in a rather cozy jail cell. Any questions?"

"Just one," Alfred answered, "What are you gonna do with me after all this is over?"

"Ve are delaying judgment until this case is solved," Ludwig answered, grim eyes telling to most likely scenario with silent, chilled whispers, "I honestly have no idea vhat they will do with you after that."

Arthur watched former assassin suck in a deep breath that he tried to hide. That treacherous little voice in the back of Arthur's mind whispered that nineteen was too young to face execution for something he had little choice in. He spent the rest of the conversation tuned out, trying to focus on the picture from the security camera to continue to convince himself that a murderer deserved no less than justice. After an hour, he almost managed to do so.

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><p><strong>Whew. There's another chapter down! Once again, I hope you enjoyed it. I'm not sure if I'll get to update again tomorrow. It depends on how busy classes are. <strong>


	5. Chapter 4: Seeing the Light of Day

**Whew! One more chapter down and I'm still pretty much on track. . I'm really starting to worry about the safety of the world since I've managed to stay on these daily updates for three days in a row. Anyway, once again, thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and favoriting. It's a real encouragement!**

**Glowstick145 ^.^ I'm hoping I'll be able to keep up at least an every other day updating schedule. **

**Nayli28 Thank you! I really appreciate it. I'm hoping this chapter stands up to the other ones. XD**

**CaptainCynical *blinks away tear* Thank you! I'm so paranoid about going OOC. Anyway, to answer your question: yes, it will. *totally forgot to list pairings in the first chapter…***

**Anyway, let me know if you guys want me to put the pairings up in the author's notes in the next chapter. I'm also thinking about doing a little one-shot contest thing like I've noticed a lot of other people doing. Wow… That's a lot of notes… I'll just get to the story now. .**

**And, if you've made it this far, I think you know that I don't own Hetalia. **

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><p><em>Chapter Three:<em>

_Seeing the Light of Day_

For someone who could be living under a death sentence, Alfred was surprisingly cheerful… or, perhaps just plane oblivious. Arthur suspected the latter. Once they'd left the meeting with Ludwig (it had taken both Arthur and the German to pry Feliciano and Alfred away from their conversation revolving around food), they'd returned to the car with a new passport with a forged name for Alfred. Ludwig had promptly instructed Arthur to take the teen out of the country to someplace remote and safe. Arthur knew who the best bet was for finding a safe place, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it. In fact, if anything, he was seriously debating—for the second time—quitting and starting on that novel.

Instead, he took out his phone and dialed the familiar number. "Yeah? What d'ya want, ya lil runt?" a male voice demanded over the loud blasting of music, his Scottish accent thick.

"Where are you at the moment?" Arthur asked, ignoring the questioning looking he was getting from Alfred.

"New York," the Scotsman answered, the dimming sound of the music signaling that he was moving, "What do you want this time, lil brother?"

"I need a safe place to stay, Ian," Arthur answered, quickly coming up with a story, "Ludwig left me with a witness protection case." If Alfred looked confused before, he was completely baffled by the development. Arthur held up a single finger to signal him to stay quiet.

Ian Kirkland, hired muscle and bodyguard, laughed, "Poor lil runt, always stuck with the grunt work, eh? Alrigh', I'll get ya a place somewhere. You owe me one."

"No, as I recall, _you_ are the one who owes _me_ from the Halloween incident," Arthur corrected. Ian grumbled before he agreed and hung up.

"So… I'm a witness now?" Alfred asked, his attention focused on the driver rather than the scenery for once.

"Technically, yes, you are," Arthur sighed, "I just happen to have left out the bit about you being a killer as well."

Arthur noticed that the American discreetly flinched each and every time someone said "killer" or variation of the word. Still, something about the boy let it roll off of him after the initial blow like water off of a duck's back. This time, however, it didn't seem to roll off so neatly. "Do you have any siblings, Artie?" he asked, looking out the window again.

Arthur debated not answering. He didn't really think that Alfred was the type to try and escape and extract revenge. Then again, he was certainly one walking surprise. He drew in a deep breath before he made his decision, "I have five."

"You have a younger one?" Alfred continued, still looking at the countryside. They'd left Paris to head to a hotel near an airport he knew Ian had connections with. Arthur gave a stiff nod he knew Alfred could see in the reflection on the window. He didn't want to talk about Peter. The boy was born to annoy him, but he was still Arthur's baby brother. "You love 'em, Artie? Feel like you should protect him from anything?" Alfred questioned, "Like you'd take on the whole world just to keep 'em from getting a scrapped knee? You'd fight somebody that was hurting him?"

Arthur hesitated but gave a second nod. He'd never admit it to Peter, though. He'd have to be on his death bed. "Why are you asking me these things?" Arthur shot back.

"Because you don't get that I never hurt anybody for the money or some weird loyalty to Winter. I never even got paid in the first place," he answered, almost uncharacteristically serious, "I wanted to be a cop when I was a kid. I wanted to stop bad guys and be the hero. But Mattie and me… we got dealt a crappy hand."

In the pregnant pause that followed, Arthur found another question to encourage the conversation to continue, "What does this have to do with my brother?"

Those blue eyes locked on Arthur's face, "If someone had a gun pointed to your little brother's head, would you let him suffer and die if you could stop it?"

Arthur nearly swerved into a car on the opposite side of the road.

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><p>A long portion of the trip had been deathly silent. Arthur was fuming and Alfred was content to just watch the scenery roll by. There was no way Arthur was anything like the man next to him. He refused to even consider the absurd idea. He was just trying to play tricks on Arthur's mind; weaken him so that he could strike back. Arthur decided that he would beat the little voice in the back of his mind to a bloody pulp if he could when it told him that Alfred really didn't have any reason to try and weaken him. There <em>had<em> to be a logical reason, then.

An hour rolled by before either one spoke again. Alfred, naturally, broke the silence. At that time, he'd had arms folded against the window and his chin placed on them so he could watch more comfortably. "Sorry if I made ya mad," he apologized without moving, "I just… Look, if I'm gonna die, I guess I wanna go out as somethin' good."

"No one ever said you were going to die," Arthur corrected, "You just assumed that, git."

"I'm not stupid, Artie," he snapped, "You guy are gonna get what ya want and that'll be it."

"That's not necessarily the way it works," Arthur admitted, unsure of why he was actually trying to comfort a criminal, "Have you heard of Antonio Carriedo?" Alfred shook his head without picking it up. They were passing a field full of wildflowers in full bloom. Alfred snorted and mumbled something about how he knew someone who would love that field more than his own life if they were sunflowers. Arthur ignored it and continued, "He was working for the mafia a few years ago. Now he works for us, rents his own apartment, and has a garden in which he can feed his unholy obsession with tomatoes."

That pulled Alfred's attention away from the window. "Wait… What'd he do for the mafia?" he asked, suddenly interested.

Arthur sighed, "He dabbled in a bit of everything, really. It took literally three and a half minutes to read off the entire list of charges at the trial."

A small smile curved on Alfred's lips, "But he's a hero, now… Cool. Thanks, Artie!" Arthur was fairly sure he was going to regret that.

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><p>They made it to the hotel about an hour after their last conversation. Alfred dozed lightly in his seat, likely still suffering the side effects of the pain medication that had been pumped into his veins for days. Arthur found himself much more capable of concentrating on the road without having to listen to the American babbling about nonsensical and unrelated things (the best coffee he'd ever head, how to give a car a speed boast with a few random objects, how "freakin' sweet" it would be to own a miniature horse, etc.).<p>

When Arthur pulled into the hotel parking lot, he was rather relieved. He was tired and ready to simply collapse once they made it up to the double bed room. Still, there was the issue of Alfred's injury to attend to with the supplies the hospital had provided and his need of a good shower. Quite frankly, the boy was starting to smell. Apparently internationally wanted criminals didn't receive top of the line care.

Arthur pushed Alfred's shoulder, earning a peak at a single blue eye. "Come on," Arthur instructed, "We're here."

Alfred groaned before he managed to drag himself out of the seat and onto his feet on the pavement. Arthur had booked a room on the phone while the American slept, and all they had to do was pick up the keys. Alfred looked oddly uncomfortable in the lobby, glancing around at each and every camera without actually drawing attention to himself while Arthur checked in.

One they were outside, Alfred let out a sigh of relief. Arthur decided to let the strange behavior go. Instead, he hoisted the duffel bag full of supplies and clothes over his shoulder before heading towards the room.

Alfred looked just as uncomfortable in the room as he did in the lobby. When Arthur finally broke down and asked, Alfred attempted to deflect the question once again, and Arthur let him. After half an hour of settling in, Alfred looked down at his ankle, "Is this thing gonna like… blow up or something if I take a shower?"

Arthur snorted, "Of course not, git. By all means, though; go take one. You're smelling rather rank."

Alfred grinned and disappeared into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Arthur heard the gentle rain of the showerhead.

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><p>Alfred sighed contently and leaned his forehead against the tiled wall. He'd turned to water on as hot as it would go, and the heat was slowly relaxing tensed muscles. He propped one arm against the wall, next to his head. He felt a phantom sense of dread and guilt twisting in his gut. There was no point in it, though; he wasn't there to hurt anyone. Hotels had simply been connected with missions in his mind. He'd even tried to dodge the reach of the cameras on instinct. He told himself that it was fine since Winter may be able to track him using the video feed. Still, the feeling persisted, raining on his rather happy parade.<p>

He glanced down at the patch of pink skin that still bore a couple of stiches (Arthur claimed he could take them out when the time was right) that was his final memento of his days as an assassin. Well, it wasn't the _only_ one, but it was still the only one that Alfred could actually see with his own eyes.

After a thirty minute shower, his disposition improved dramatically. He was going to let go of the bad, he decided. From that day forward, Alfred F. Jones was going to be a hero. And that was that.

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><p>Once again, Alfred managed to shock Arthur. This time, however, it was in a much more conventional manner that really <em>shouldn't<em> have shocked him. The American came out of the shower with thick jeans hugging his narrow hips and no shirt. He walked while the dried his soaked hair with a towel. Arthur could already pick out which strand of hair was the cowlick because it was slowly reaching back up to its regular place.

Arthur had been reclining against the headboard of one of the beds, and for reasons he could (and didn't want to) fathom, his face instantly heated up. While he was far from bulky, the former assassin was lean with defined muscles that seemed to almost hide under the baggy hoodie Francis picked out. Instead of looking away, Arthur found his eyes drawn to the pink, irritated wound that would form a rather distinct scar in the future.

Alfred smiled, "I figured you need to patch me up before I got dressed again."

Arthur nodded and dug the materials out before gesturing for the other man to take a seat at the edge of the bed. For once, Arthur was thankful that Alfred didn't look like a criminal. He doubted that he could have actually helped him had he seen the man in the photo sitting before him.

Alfred took a seat at the edge of the bed, his back facing Arthur who immediately flinched at the sight before him. A mass of thin, vertical scars traced across what was once the smooth skin of a teenager's spine and should blades like the stalks of the wildflowers in the field from earlier, reaching up to the warmth of sun-like hair. Several were older than others, but each made something twist in Arthur's stomach as though he were sick with a virus.

His fingers reached out to brush one of the deeper scars before he could stop himself, "What… What are these?" He cursed himself for the hesitancy in his voice.

The American didn't flinch or tense at the touch. In fact, if Arthur wasn't mistaken, he relaxed, perpetually tense muscles slowly uncoiling like a snake unfolding when it realized that there was no longer a need to strike. "What's the matter, Artie? Never seen a scar before?" Alfred teased. He could almost _hear_ he grin on the younger man's face that wouldn't quite warm his eyes.

"Not like these, no," Arthur answered truthfully, retracting the hand. A couple a faint, almost invisible ones had to date back to his childhood. He thought of Peter, placing Alfred around the same age when some of them occurred. He felt as though he'd honestly be sick at that moment.

"They're for different reasons," Alfred answered in an almost cryptic way with a light shrug as if they were as common as a trip to the grocery store, "But they don't matter."

"Tell me," Arthur pressed, not sure why.

"Maybe some other time," Alfred deflected once again. Arthur didn't push the subject any further. Instead, he worked on wrapping the fresh wound to keep it from getting infected, trying to ignore the morbid mural of flower stems, each one missing its head and petals, that decorated the younger man's back.

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><p>After slipping his hoodie back on, Alfred went on a manhunt around the room for a remote. He finally managed to track it down to a drawer next to the TV. "What d'ya wanna watch?" he asked cheerfully. Arthur shrugged, slipping a page in the book he'd picked up for the journey. He wasn't going to watch it anyway. Alfred only waited a few seconds before he flipped to a random channel, anyway.<p>

Arthur found it strange to sit in the room with the younger man as though they were two close friends on vacation. The boy honestly made it difficult to believe he could intentionally hurt anyone besides himself, and that was on accident, as far as Arthur could tell (Alfred had managed a number of accidental injuries including a bump to the head with the car door, a stubbed toe on a dresser, and taking a bit out of the inside of his cheek while trying to wolf down a burger). He was cheerful on most occasions and something of a strange optimist. However, if he so much as heard the name "Ivan," his entire cheerful disposition vanished and he began to rant about how any child who was given that particular name was destined to become a jerk. Arthur couldn't help but think that Peter would have said the same about his name.

Even though the channels were all French, Alfred watched the TV as though he understood every word. "I was under the impression that you don't speak French," Arthur finally commented, turning another page in his book.

Alfred glanced over at him with those large blue eyes, wearing an innocent expression that seemed to constantly throw Arthur for a loop. "I don't," he responded, lips curving into a grin, "But I've gotta say that I like the fact that you think I 'm amazing enough to pick up a whole language in a few days."

That small joke began the seemingly endless range of comments that generally began with something to the effect of "I know I'm amazing, but…" and ended in some sort of hidden shot at Arthur. The Brit was slowly beginning to regret not bringing anything for migraines because he could see several in his near future.

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><p>Alfred closed his eyes roughly thirty minutes after his last conversation with Arthur, listening to the smooth French lines on the drama he'd stopped at. He couldn't understand anything but a few odd words here and there. That just meant that he could close his eyes and pretend that Matthew was sitting a few feet in front of him, speaking fluently in the language as he'd often done when trying to get Alfred to calm down after a job as the older twin struggled to rationalize what he'd done. He failed more times than succeeded. In fact, he'd never really succeeded in telling himself that it was the right choice.<p>

He drew in a relaxing breath and smiled softly, picturing that a familiar face was sitting across from him, safe and happy, telling him that everything would be fine with words Alfred couldn't actually understand save for the inferences from the tone with which he said them. He would switch to English and repeat parts of the conversation, telling him that everything worked out in the end, that it'd all been worth it. And it actually was, in a way.

He fell asleep, and for the first time in thirteen years, he was comforted by dreams of city lights and world made new. He dreamed of stepping off of an airplane into the city of his birth for the first time since he'd been seven and of proving to the British detective that even a killer could be a hero if he tried hard enough. He didn't have to convince himself anymore because he now knew that, no matter what happened to him next, everything was going to be fine. It would work out for the best in the end.

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><p>Arthur woke to a call at three in the morning.<p>

Remembering the last call that had woken him in the wee hours of the morning, he almost dreaded opening the phone and answering. This time, he had little choice. He grabbed the phone, a bit distracted by the soft snores emanating from the other bed in the shadows, and managed to find the talk button. "What?" he groaned, still burdened with sleep.

"_Mon ami, I 'ave the greatest news for you!_" the accented French voice answered cheerfully.

Arthur groaned again, already regretting answering the phone, "What could you possibly want at three o'clock in the morning?"

"_No, no, I want nothing from you, cher; I 'ave done you a great favor_," Francis corrected, "_I received an interesting call your dear older brother regarding a place for you to stay, and I 'ave made arrangements for you and Alfred to stay with mon ami Gilbert for free! Isn't that wonderful?_"

Arthur felt his eye twitch, "And just _where_ is Gilbert?" The next time he saw Ian, he was going to bust the bottle of alcohol he was bound to have with him over his head.

"_Canada!_" Francis answered cheerfully, "_A country nearly as lovely and pleasant as my own._"

"Oh? The fact that they speak French has nothing to do with it?" Arthur snapped.

Francis chuckled and began to say something before Arthur heard signs of a struggle and a few French curses. "_Hola, amigo! You never answered my question about tomatoes,_" Antonio's voice cut in cheerfully, "_But that's okay. You can answer it on the plane ride_."

Arthur's tired mind couldn't keep up with the Spaniard's strange logic. "What bloody plane ride are you talking about?" he hissed, just wanting to go back to sleep.

There was a quiet "oops" before Antonio continued, "_Oh! I guess Franny didn't tell you. Well, we're—"_

There was another struggle for the phone and a string of rather loud Italian curses rang clearly through the phone. Obviously someone was angry, and obviously someone was Italian. Arthur heard Antonio coo something to the effect of "_Relax, mi tomate. All of this stress is bad for your heart, you know"_ right before there was the sound of what Arthur could only imagine were two skulls bashing together and a soft "_Ow… That one really hurt!_" before everything went oddly quiet.

Once the commotion on the other end of the line died down, Francis spoke again, "_What Antonio was saying is that we 'ave booked tickets for all of us to go!"_

"I'm not going," Arthur responded without even a hint of hesitation. Antonio, his long-term rival, and Francis, the nightmare from his childhood in the same place at the same time was at the very top of Arthur's "list of things to avoid," directly above he bubonic plague and drowning.

"_Sorry, mon cher, but I 'ave already gotten it passed by Ludwig!_" Francis countered in a singsong voice, "_I will be seeing you and Alfred at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning at the airport! Au revoir!_" Before Arthur had a change to protest, Francis hung up the phone.

Arthur had his finger over the talk button with his German superior's number typed out on the screen of his phone when an image of an angry Ludwig interrupted from sleep mentally shattered his eardrum from the lecture that would ensue. Cringing slightly, he set an alarm on his phone and conceded to both sleep and Francis' idea.

If anything was certain, it was that he would stop by a store somewhere to pick up head ache medicine.

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><p><strong>Don't worry everyone, the action is going to start in the next chapter. <strong>

**By the way, if you guys want me to do a little preview for the next chapter down here at the bottom, let me know about that, too. ^.^**


	6. Chapter 5: Prelude to War

**Welcome back! ^.^ As I said in the previous chapter, there's going to be a bit of action in this one. For everyone who guessed that Mattie would be in this chapter… you're right! ^.^ *Hands out cookies* As always, I want to thank reviewers, favorites, and everyone who put the story on alert. You guys are the best.**

**So, here's the pairings so far. Let me know if there's a request and I'll try and squeeze it in.**

_(Main) USUK, PruCan, RussiaxChina, SpainxRomano, GerIta_

_(Minor) GreexexJapan, AustriaxHungary_

**Glowstick145 Thank you! ^.^ Mattie is indeed in this chapter!**

**Nayli28 O.O If you drew it, I'd totally write a request one-shot. I'm really glad you're enjoying it so much! ^.^**

**Renuki Poor Arthur. He always thinks the worst in situations with Alfred. He'll definitely be a hero! I mean, come on, he's Alfred. XD**

**CaptainCynical Thank you so much! ^.^ I'll fix the error when I get the time to. *is pushing it to get this chapter out* . Anyway, I'll try to start putting the previews up at the bottom. **

**And, sadly, I still don't own Hetalia. I've been told that shooting stars aren't miracle workers… *Joins Germany in the "I want a Shooting Star to Grant me a Miracle" club***

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><p><em>Chapter Five:<em>

_Prelude to War_

True to his vow the night before, Arthur stopped to buy something for a potential head ache on the way to the airport. Alfred didn't really question it. He was too busy bouncing up and down on his heels, excited to head off to North America even if it wasn't to his home country.

By the time they made it to the airport, Arthur was almost certain that the younger man would have a heart attack before they even got on the plane.

Francis, Antonio, and a person Arthur almost mistook for Feliciano (he'd been far too sour to be the cheerful Italian) were waiting with their tickets (Arthur didn't even want to know how Ian booked the flight without their passports). Francis greeted Alfred as though he were a long lost friend, placing a kiss on each cheek that freaked the American out. The Italian cursed at the Frenchman and promptly hid behind Antonio when Francis turned back to face him.

Alfred and Antonio sized each other up with a strange visual examination that lasted only a few seconds, each one smiling innocently. Arthur assumed that those were common habits from their similar backgrounds. As if by telepathy, they both reached out to shake the other's hand at the same time without so much as a crack in the spacey smiles that Arthur _knew_ hid dark, terrifying secrets.

"Hola, Alfred," Antonio greeted, not having to even ask if the man before him was the criminal.

"Hello yourself, Antonio," Alfred returned the greeting, like the Spaniard, not even having to ask who he was. The other three onlookers had stayed still and silent through the exchange, as if waiting for some sort of explosion to occur. Apparently the saying "it takes one to know one" applied to the two of them.

"Say, Alfred, do you like tomatoes?" Antonio asked, effectively allowing the other three to breathe a sigh of relief.

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><p>To say that the plane ride was a nightmare would be a grievance understatement as far as Arthur was concerned. At least with a nightmare, there was the possibility of escape to the world of consciousness. For Arthur, there really was no escape once they were seated. He had taken the seat nearest the isle while Alfred happily claimed the seat next to the window. He's babbled on and on about loving to fly and how it made him feel as though nothing could touch him up in the sky. Flying just made Arthur sick to his stomach.<p>

Francis, Antonio, and what turned out to be Feliciano's older twin, Lovino Vargas, were seated behind them. Lovino was seated near the isle so that he could run away if Francis tried anything and Antonio sat in the middle, casually slipping and arm over Lovino's and Francis' backrests. Francis took the window seat with pleasure. Alfred had spent nearly an hour peaking over the seat just to talk to Antonio about tomato farming before the stewardess had kindly informed him that he needed to stay seated. Alfred seemed to think that special water imported from Mars' ice caps would probably make the best tasting produce on Earth. The sad part was that Antonio actually considered the idea as though the pair of them were going to call a space agency the next day and propose their hypothesis. Lovino promptly scolded Antonio for even considering such a stupid idea with what Arthur had to admit were a few rather creative expressions.

Most of the trip was taken up by Antonio cooing in a mixture of Spanish, Italian, and English to Lovino who responded in a similar mixture with the only real difference being the violence in Lovino's words that actually translated into literal violence in the form of one head butt and three punches. Alfred and Francis laughed through most of it, highly amused. Arthur just wanted to go to sleep.

Eventually, Arthur _did_ manage to fall asleep, but it was a restless nap that was constantly interrupted by bickering somewhere between the decent sized group.

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><p>After a few hours, Lovino began to frown off to the side before his eyelids slowly drifted closed. Francis pulled out a mask to block out the lights and leaned his head against the window. That left just the former criminals.<p>

Seeing as their cabin was basically deserted, Alfred hopped up in his seat and turned himself around to look at Antonio, "So… What'd you have to do? To become a hero, I mean."

Antonio thought for a minute. "Well, it's kind of a long story, amigo, but I think we've got the time," he finally answered, "I was actually supposed to kill Lovi. Believe it or not, his grandfather is a pretty successful businessman and somebody in the family didn't like that. But I made a mistake, you see, and it was the best mistake I ever made; I talked to Lovi. After that, I just couldn't do it. So, I went to a police station and turned myself in." He absently patted Lovino's head and Alfred was fairly glad the young Italian was asleep because the head butts sounded like the hurt.

He went on to talk about taking odd jobs with the authorities, using the networks he'd built up as well as the particular skills that they didn't teach officers and agents. "Basically, you show them that you are more useful alive and happy than you are dead or stuck in a cell," he concluded, "The fact that Lovi's brother is Ludwig's only friends may have helped to."

Alfred nodded, digesting the information. He slowly smiled, "I think I can do that. I _am_ gonna be a hero, after all."

Antonio shot him a thumbs up, "I've got faith in you, amigo."

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><p>Thankfully, Arthur was able to sleep until landing time. As it turned out, the entire plane ride had been relatively uneventful in comparison with most of the so-called "adventures" Francis had forced him on. At least no angry stewardess was threatening to throw the Frenchman out of the plane at several thousand feet.<p>

Oddly enough, Alfred seemed even more cheerful than usual, tapping his feet lightly against the floor as though he couldn't manage to keep himself still for more than a few minutes. The only thing that irritated Arthur was the fact that his book was laying in Alfred's lap while the taller blonde flipped a page.

"What do you think you're doing with _my_ book?" he demanded.

Without moving his head, those blue eyes shifted to Arthur, peeking out from the side of his glasses, "I'm readin', Artie."

Arthur scowled, "I know _that_, git."

Alfred shrugged and returned to his page, "Well, you asked."

Crossing his arms to sulk, Arthur glared, "I didn't even know you were literate. You could have fooled me."

Alfred actually laughed, "Come on, Artie, it's a _detective_ story. How was I supposed to leave it alone? 'Sides, I think you get way too into your job. Francis is right."

Arthur snatched the book out of Alfred's hands, "If you're going to mock me for doing my job, then you can't read my book."

That was the first time he experienced Alfred's pouting. He had almost written off the idea of the boy being smart enough to be manipulative. However, one look into the pitiful, wide blue eyes and the expression on his face that Arthur subconsciously likened to a kicked puppy destroyed that thought. He sighed, knowing he was being manipulated, but set the book back in his waiting hands, "I'm only giving it back so you'll stay quiet."

Alfred cheered, "Thanks Artie!" He managed to find his page and started reading again.

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><p>Francis had a rental car arranged when they left the airport. Antonio promptly volunteered to drive but was shot down by everyone except for Alfred, who had no idea what he was agreeing with. While Antonio was a cheerful and laid back man, his driving was the one thing that carried over from his former life style. He drove like a stuntman for a Die Hard movie, laughing all the way. When Francis explained this, Alfred's smile widened and he claimed that he could cast a "hero vote" which outvoted everyone else. Arthur shoved Alfred in the back seat before Antonio got any ideas.<p>

Francis took the wheel instead. Lovino sat in the back seat with Arthur and Alfred, sulking the whole time while Antonio chatted happily with Francis in the passenger seat. An odd thought struck Arthur: it was like they were a bunch of college kids on a road trip. He bit his lip and forced the comfortable feeling away. He reminded himself that the long leg and toned shoulder that lightly leaned against his side belonged to a killer, no matter how warm and seemingly comfortable they were.

It took an hour to make it to Gilbert's house. Throughout the rest of the trip, Alfred was fairly silent, reading through the book at an alarmingly fast pace (maybe he wasn't as dumb as he acted) and adding a few random comments to the conversation going on in the rest of the car, leading Arthur to believe that the younger man was actually multitasking rather well. He eyed Alfred suspiciously, at one point, from the corner of his eyes.

The strangest thing was actually arriving at the German's house. Francis knocked on the door and announced their arrival, "Gil! Open up, it is your best friends! The trio shall be back in business once again!"

Arthur didn't even want to know what Francis was talking about. A few minutes (and a couple of stumbling sounds) later, Gilbert opened the door, wearing a black apron with devil horns over a black T-shirt and jeans. The apron was rather useless since all three articles of clothing were covered in flour. In fact, his face and arms sported spots of the stuff. Having met the German only once before, Arthur was prepared for the massive head ache that he was bound to induce. The flour was only proof that he hadn't changed a bit.

Francis snickered and eyed Gilbert, "Just what 'ave you been doing, mon ami?"

Gilbert flashed the Frenchman a grin, "I vas cooking vith my new friend." His crimson eyes traveled around the group before stopping on Alfred. Arthur barely noted that his grin fell just a hint, and something passed between the two men. It was almost like what he'd seen pass between Alfred and Antonio hours earlier. He narrowed his emerald eyes.

"Gilbert, are you oka—" The soft voice stopped dead in its tracks when whoever the owner was likely noticed that the door was open. Silence descended on the group. "Gilbert?" the soft voice called again, this time hesitating as though its owner were expecting monsters outside of the door.

The German found his grin again and peaked back into the room, "It's just some friends, birdie."

The tension in the atmosphere vanished. There was a soft "Oh, okay" Gilbert stepped out of the doorway and let the group in. His house was fairly nice with a decent sized lawn and a couple of trees randomly scattered across the property. The tan colored house itself was two stories with a small attic. The front door opened into a nice sized living room that held the entire crowd without feeling cramped.

The first thing Arthur noticed was the tall blonde man, oddly free of flour, standing at the entrance to what looked like a kitchen. He scanned over the new faces, one hand grasping the doorway, the other holding a spatula. He wore a dark red shirt with a small Canadian flag printed on the middle. But the thing that really struck Arthur (enough to make his heart skip a beat) was the striking resemblance he had to a certain American. Obviously, he wasn't the only one who noticed because Francis was glancing back and forth between the two.

When the man's almost violet eyes landed on Alfred, they stuck and his mouth opened just a bit before he closed it and bit down on his lip, not removing his gaze. Arthur glanced at Alfred who was wearing a similar expression on all too similar features.

Once again, Gilbert broke in, diffusing the mood. He pointed at the blonde, "Zis is mien friend, M-Will. He has been staying vith the awesome me since I am awesome and he has no money to pay for a dorm room."

Francis introduced himself, then Antonio, then Alfred, and finally Arthur. Will shook hands with the three Europeans before he stopped in front of Alfred. Throughout the whole ordeal, the two hadn't quit staring at each other as though they were looking at a ghost.

They were the same height, Arthur noticed when they stood face to face. Will smiled softly, "It's nice to meet you, Alfred." He held out his hand.

What looked to be a smile that held conflicting sadness, joy, and playfulness lit up the American's features, "Yeah, yeah it is." He took the other man's hand tight in his own and shook it as though he were holding onto a lifeline.

They let go a few seconds later and the strange spell seemed to be broken. Gilbert ushered everyone onto the couches before Will excused himself to continue cooking and cleaning up the mess Gilbert made.

* * *

><p>Alfred tapped his feet against the ground, anxiety welling up in his stomach. He glanced at Arthur, who was currently arguing with Francis about British cooking, then to the kitchen. He'd wanted to laugh at the alias Gilbert managed to contrive in a matter of seconds. He'd taken Mattie's last name, shortened it, and pretended as though he and Alfred didn't look like twins. Still, he couldn't get up and run to the kitchen or Arthur would get suspicious. Arthur couldn't find out who "Will" was. That would mean that Mattie would be stuck in danger again, just like Alfred was at the moment. At the same time, he wasn't sure how much longer he could sit there while Mattie, the brother he hadn't been able to even find out if he made it to Gilbert before Winter caught up, was in the next room.<p>

Gilbert headed off to the kitchen, claiming that he needed to help clean up his mess. Before he vanished through the door, he stopped and turned to Arthur, "Do you mind if I borrow Alfred to help the awesome me clean up?"

Arthur didn't like it; Alfred could clearly see that from the look on his face. He recalled something about having to stay in Arthur's sight at all times. It seemed as though the next room wasn't stretching it too far since Arthur gave a reluctant nod.

Alfred tried to make it look as though he hadn't leapt to his feet and rushed off to the kitchen, but likely did a poor job of it. Gilbert closed the door to the small kitchen behind him and stood back against the wall with his hands crossed and a smile on his face. He was giving the twins their space.

Alfred stared at Matthew who stared back with a good foot and a half separating them. Neither one of them moved for a minute, seeming to fear that the other one would turn out to be an imposter. Alfred couldn't take much more silence, so he broke it, "Ya look happy, Mattie."

Alfred saw the punch that landed neatly on his stomach coming, but he didn't notice the slap that followed it until he heard the _smack_ and felt the sting. He straightened up his posture after having doubled over a bit and laughed roughly, "Hey to you, too."

Matthew closed the gap and embraced his twin tightly. Alfred could feel the tears that slowly soaked through his shirt and the light trembling caused by the silent sobs. "You're so stupid, Al," Matthew whispered, "I thought you were dead."

"C'mon, little bro, it takes a lot more than Winter to kill _me_," Alfred joked, closing his arms tightly around Matthew, "I wasn't sure if Gil got to you before Winter."

Gilbert laughed, "Never doubt the awesome me, Alfie."

The twins held onto each other, Matthew crying his silent relief on his brother's shoulder. Alfred was a bit shocked to feel a single trail of salty water that leaked from his own eye, down his chin. He smiled softly at the sign. He hadn't cried in twelve years. But it seemed as though everything was finally being made anew.

The brothers parted after a few more minutes and Matthew lifted up his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Sorry for hitting you, Al," he apologized.

"S'okay, man," Alfred responded, grinning happily, suddenly feeling both drained and overjoyed. If he had the energy, he almost imagined he could run a marathon with the weight of worry lifted off of his shoulders. He thought it was funny that he really only felt exhausted from carrying the burden when it was relieved.

Gilbert took that as his cue to enter the conversation. "Good to see you again, Alfie," he greeted informally, holding out his hand.

The two clasped arms, grinning their confident smiles. "You've got no idea, dude," Alfred laughed.

Matthew watched Alfred with curious eyes, "How did you escape?"

Alfred laughed nervously, letting go of Gilbert's arm before rubbing the back of his neck, "I guess you could say I got pretty lucky." He lifted his shirt to show the pair the bandages around the wound. "Winter screwed up, and I woke up in some French hospital with cranky Inspector Holmes in there." He pointed to the door that Gilbert had closed a few minutes earlier.

Worry began to fill Matthew's expression, "He's a cop?"

"Detective," Alfred corrected, playfully mocking Arthur's accent and rolling his eyes, "Guy's obsessed with it, I think."

Matthew's frown deepened, but Gilbert stepped in, slipping an arm around the Canadian's shoulders. "Don't worry about a thing, birdie. Ze awesome me vill make sure zat Ludwig is nice to Alfie," he encouraged, looking to Alfred. Alfred wasn't sure if the two of them were related by blood. It seemed unlikely since Winter hadn't even heard of Ludwig. He just assumed that it was a bond that the two formed when Gilbert turned up at the police station, wounded and freezing in the snow, running from a phantom he refused to name. At least, that was the story Gilbert had given him when they discussed how to save Matthew.

Deciding it was best to not bring up the arm wrapped around his twin's shoulders, Alfred nodded, "That'd be totally great, man. I thought that guy was gonna explode or somethin'."

The three of them descended into conversation and cooking, each one coping with the life they'd had in common and left behind. It was a slow climb out of the dark well they'd been cast into, but it certainly wasn't impossible to envision feeling the bright rays of light from a new day shining on skin that had only known the darkness.

* * *

><p>It was sunset by the time Arthur got the chance to interrogate Alfred. The two of them had been placed on the two couches for the night since they refused to share a bed and no one wanted to sleep on the floor. Both blondes had settled into blankets they'd been given, and the house was silent. "Who is that man?" Arthur asked, having a good guess already.<p>

He heard Alfred shift, "His name's Will, right?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, "Don't play dumb, git. You know what I mean."

Alfred laughed softly, "Not a clue, actually."

Arthur sighed heavily, "This is not a game, Alfred." There was a bit of silence as though Alfred were debating his answer. When there was none, Arthur tried a different approach, "That's him, isn't it?"

The silence was tense. "Don't start that conversation, Artie," Alfred responded, a strange roughness to it that Arthur was unused to hearing in his cheerful voice, "I'll pay for any sins my brother had to commit."

Arthur bit at the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say. His mind went back to the conversation they'd had in the car. He knew what Alfred had done to protect Matthew, and he was certain Alfred would choose to do it again if he were pushed. The part that swayed him, however, was the image of the scars lining the young man's back and an image of Peter. Perhaps… Alfred had suffered his fair share… for the moment, anyway. Finally, he found the words, "Even if he is Matthew Williams, there isn't any evidence to convict him with anything. He would simply be a missing person's case, unlike you." The photo along with the plethora of aliases and falsified passports that Antonio had uncovered were fairly clear pieces of evidence against Alfred.

He literally heard the breath of air that Alfred let out, "Thank you, Arthur." The detective didn't respond. Instead, he let his eyes shut and tried to force himself into a sleep he knew wasn't going to come with any semblance of ease.

* * *

><p>The absence of Alfred's regular snores was the first sign in Arthur's mind that something was very wrong. He cracked an eye open and glanced over to make sure the American was still in the room. Alfred was laid out on his back (another oddity since he generally slept on his side from what Arthur had seen) and his glasses were still on his face.<p>

That's when the second warning bell rang in Arthur's mind: he'd seen Alfred take his glasses off and set them on the nearby table before they'd turned out the light. What in the world was the American doing…?

"I am not a fool, Alfred," a thickly accented voice cooed, "You are not asleep." Arthur stiffened. Sure, they had a rather ethnically diverse group in the house, but there was no Russian among them.

The American sat up, his eyes traveling to the darkest part of the room. A grin that literally put chills on Arthur's arms spread across a normally carefree and oblivious face. "'Sup, Ivan?" he asked with casual words that hid venom in every salable. He wasn't looking at the cheerful "hero" he'd been babysitting for the past few weeks: Arthur was looking at the face of an assassin.

Arthur watched Alfred's eyes sweep the room, looking for what he assumed to be a weapon. The Brit didn't even see the Russian man move until Alfred shot up to his feet, dodging what looked like a pipe that smashed into the place where he'd been sitting only moments before. The Russian kept sweeping at the American who neatly ducked and attempted to throw a few punches and kicks that were promptly blocked. For a moment, Arthur was stunned. He'd seen world-class fighters before, but the pair before him surpassed anything he'd ever witnessed. They were agile, powerful, and ruthless. He was reminded of a pair of wolves he'd seen fight on a documentary.

He managed to snap himself out of it and decided to join in. He was already sitting up with the light snapped on, freezing the two combatants. Arthur heard a metallic _click_. He whipped his head to the sound. Gilbert was leering down the barrel of a pistol, a savage anger on his face that Arthur couldn't have imagined earlier. "Vhat are you doing here?" he demanded in a growl. The gun was pointed at the Russian.

Said Russian, who indeed held a pipe above his head, chuckled with a smile that was just too innocent, "привет, Gilbert. How are you these days?"

The German's finger was so close to squeezing the trigger, he only had to twitch to fire. Gilbert responded in a roar of Russian that Arthur couldn't understand a word of. The Russian chuckled, "I am not here to hurt anyone. I am actually here to warn Alfred."

Said American narrowed his blue eyes, coiled and ready to strike if anyone moved, "Why would you warn me about anything?"

"Because I must," Ivan answered cryptically, "He will be coming for you soon. You know that, да? Your new friends… they will die and you will come back to the family whether you want to or not."

Alfred shook his head, grinning like a madman, "Over my dead body, commie."

That innocent smile fell just a bit, "Let us hope not. You would need a special army to defeat him. You know that, да?"

"Get out," Gilbert seethed, breaking into the conversation, "Or I vill put a bullet between your eyes."

The Russian nodded and retracted his pipe before heading out of the front door as though he'd been invited in for tea. He stopped to glance over his shoulder at Alfred, "Remember, capitalist, there are some things that cannot be changed. We are one of them, and that is not the curse you think it is."

It took three hours, several bottles of alcohol, and three dents in the walls to calm Alfred and Gilbert down. Arthur figured that they had good reason to be upset.

Winter knew they were alive and he knew where to find them.

* * *

><p><strong>Yay! I got it done on time! XD<strong>

**Anyway, here is your preview:**

_Alfred took a seat on the bench, munching on his hotdog. He glanced at Arthur. The British man was shouting at Gilbert and Francis who'd managed to gang up on him about his cooking. The American glanced at the Japanese man who was sitting beside him like a stranger, tossing crumbs to the park's birds. "Good afternoon, Alfred-kun," he greeted softly, "I have a warning for you."_

"_I heard," Alfred responded, using his hotdog to cover the fact that he was speaking, "Ivan told me."_

_Kiku didn't look surprised, "Something strange is happening. I think that you best prepare."_

"_I can't, dude," Alfred pointed out, the black band on his ankle suddenly feeling like a chain, "I'm gonna get them killed, too."_

_Kiku smiled softly as a pigeon landed on his knee, "All you need is an army."_

_Alfred frowned, "Funny thing, Kiku; that's exactly what Ivan told me."_

"_Perhaps you should learn to look past the surface, Alfred-kun," Kiku suggested, "Things are not always what they seem." _

_Something weird was going on, and Alfred was beginning to suspect that it may have had something to do with the reason he was still alive. _


	7. Chapter 6: Comics and Rendezvous

**Hello once again! Sorry about the late posting, yesterday was really busy. So, here's the next installment of The Dead Can't Testify! As usual, thank you to anyone who reviewed and favorited; they really mean a lot to someone who isn't really used to getting compliments like that. ^.^ You guys are great! *Gives out more cookies***

**Glowstick145 I agree. ^.^ Russian makes a lot of things sound really awesome (and slightly intimidating at times). Japan's part is kind of small in this chapter, but it gets bigger as time goes on.**

**Renuki XP Go Canadia! Anyway, yeah, it's finally starting to get to the action bits after this chapter. *Punches air* Yeah!**

**Nayli28 That's awesome! XD That's the guy you need when you're in a random car chase. I figured that Antonio is just so adorable that it would be funny if he drove like a maniac. **

**Knowing Gilbert, it was something awesome. XD And then there's the fact that Russia is amazing at randomly showing up. **

**O.O *is waiting excitedly for message* I've never had anybody draw anything based from my stories before. *wipes tear* This is amazing! **

**CaptainCynical We all know that Al is a bit smarter than he lets on. XP I really hope I didn't push the relationship too fast in this chapter, though. . **

**And, I agree about Ivan. I can't just write him as being the type to just randomly attack people. But, I think that's a bit more detailed in this chapter. **

**Anyway, here is the next chapter of Astro-does-not-own-Hetalia-and-is-sulking-about-it-on-fanfiction.**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Six:<em>

_Comics and Rendezvous_

Arthur realized that it was defiantly a good thing that he'd stopped to get the headache medication. Alfred and Gilbert were completely and utterly wasted, sitting in the floor, laughing like madmen at three o'clock in the morning. Gilbert had an arm around Alfred's shoulders while Alfred snickered when he poked Gilbert on the cheek as though it were the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen. Arthur lost count of how many German beer bottles were scattered about the floor. He simply knew three things. The first of which was that the pair of men before him were going to have the worst hangovers of their lives in the morning. The second, of course, was that he regretted suggesting that they turn their pent up violence and anxiety into a game rather than house abuse. And the third was that he was ready to fall back against the couch and sleep, no matter how many bottle poked into his back.

Around the point when the pair collapsed onto the ground and began to stare at the ceiling, trying to count the "stars," Matthew walked down the steps, his glasses of and rubbing at his eyes. "What's going on?" he asked, sleep evident in his voice.

Arthur pointed at the "stargazers," "These two gits thought it would be lovely to drink themselves to death at three in the morning."

Matthew frowned and walked over to Gilbert. Violet eyes met sluggish red. Gilbert grinned, "Hey, birdie… Vhat's going on vith you?"

The Canadian sighed and knelt down to collect Gilbert. "I'll take him to bed," he told Arthur as he pulled one of the German's arms over his shoulders and brought him to his feet with an ease that left Arthur a bit unnerved. Both twins seemed to have some strange amount of strength that left him feeling uneasy. Arthur gave a curt nod. Matthew smiled, "Please take care of Al. He seems like a nice guy." He'd added the last part on hastily to try and cover up a mistake.

Arthur frowned, "I know, Matthew. You're twins; it's obvious."

Matthew tensed, "What are you going to do, then?"

It was Arthur's turn to sigh. What he was doing wasn't what a detective _should_ do. He just couldn't get the picture of the scars on Alfred's back out of his mind, nor the emotional scars the American was obviously very good at hiding. Arthur didn't want to be responsible for adding another; that would put him on the same level as Winter. "Absolutly nothing," he answered honestly.

Matthew relaxed, "Thank you. But, please… I'm begging you to take care of him. There's no punishment you could give him that would be worse than what he does to himself up here." He used his free hand to point at his forehead.

Arthur frowned and looked away from Matthew, "I can't make any promises."

Matthew's violet eyes took on a morose layer as they looked to the ground. He nodded, "I see." He turned and began the task of hauling Gilbert up the stairs. Arthur didn't look at Alfred, who was still "stargazing," until he knew Matthew was upstairs.

The younger blonde looked oddly peaceful in comparison to his expression only an hour earlier. He'd been grinding his own teeth and gripping the arm of the couch so tightly, Arthur feared it would break. His arms were spread out like he was about to make a snow angel, and his wheat-colored hair fell away from his face, letting his sky blue eyes shine through. That dumb grin Arthur was slowly getting used to (a dangerous thought) was slapped across his face. "Come on, you lug," Arthur muttered, leaning down in the same manner he'd seen Matthew do with Gilbert minutes ago.

Alfred let Arthur lift him off the ground (Matthew made it look so easy), and the two stumbled towards the couch. Right before they made it, something shifted in Alfred's weight and Arthur found his back slammed against the nearby wall with a hand pressed to said wall, right next to his neck and the other pressing into his shoulder. It was official; Alfred had an unfair height and build advantage. Arthur gulped, looking into strangely coherent blue eyes.

"I don't want him to kill you, Arite," Alfred informed him.

Arthur blinked several times, trying to back up even though his spine was literally against the wall, "I'm not following, Alfred."

The American leaned in closer, "Winter. He'll kill you because you're with me. Ivan's right about that."

Arthur's frown deepened at the heat radiating from the body before him, "Why am I not surprised that your grammar actually improves when you're drunk?"

Alfred chuckled lazily, eliciting an odd fluttering in Arthur's chest, "I don't want you to die."

Arthur raised a large brow, trying to seem level headed when he clearly was not, "I can't imagine why not."

"'Cause you're a good guy," Alfred responded, grinning as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

"But you could escape," Arthur pointed out, honestly not liking the hypothetical '_if Arthur died_' part of the conversation.

Alfred leaned his forehead against the wall on the opposite side of Arthur's head of the hand that had pinned him in. He was laughing. "You saw 'em, Artie," he answered. Arthur knew he was referring to the scars on his back. "Why would anybody go back to that?" he asked rhetorically, "Besides, I'm so tired of being a villain; I just wanna be the hero for once." Arthur scowled, feeling unbalanced both by his lack of sleep and by his inability to escape. He pushed against Alfred again, trying to make space between them to no avail. Alfred chuckled again and Arthur shivered, "That's what happens to heroes in Winter's house." With that, he used the hand propped against the wall to push back. He headed towards the couch with only a slight stagger and collapsed into sleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.

Arthur stood there for a moment, emerald eyes locked on the other man's back. Even in the dim starlight that filtered through the window, he could see two thin lines peeking out of the American's collar, just at the base of his spine. And that's when it dawned on him; the younger man was obviously substantially stronger, even when wounded. He was the better fighter; there was no doubt about it.

At any point when he'd been alone with Alfred, the American could have overpowered him without any trouble at all.

The boy really meant to redeem himself… or Arthur would have been dead.

* * *

><p>Alfred woke up with the worst headache he'd ever experienced in his life (except for the time that stupid commie actually smashed that lame pipe over his head in a "training" session). He groaned and pressed his throbbing forehead into the soft cushion of the couch. "I see that you're finally awake," the English accented voice sounded like thunder cracking in his ear.<p>

"This sucks," he groaned, trying to worm his way into the couch.

Arthur chuckled, "And what's worse is that Francis has decided that we are all going to the park. You have to get up now."

Alfred made a noise somewhere between a growl and a dramatic sob that was severely muffled by the couch, "You're so mean, dude…"

Arthur scowled, "If I'm so mean, then I certainly won't give you anything for it."

The wheat-haired man shot up into a sitting position and instantly cringed at the light that flooded his sensitive eyes. It was going to be a really long day…

* * *

><p>As it turned out, the pounding against Alfred's skull faded to a faint throbbing when lunch time rolled around. As Francis intended, the entire group shipped out to the nearby park for "rest and relaxation time." A good half of the group complained, claiming that it was a waste of time, but Alfred, Antonio, and Francis managed to outvote the others (all Alfred had to do was convince Matthew, who easily convinced Gilbert). So, they'd packed up and headed out for the day.<p>

Once they arrived, Alfred was thoroughly unimpressed. It was just a big field with a playground, a couple of benches, and a few food venders. Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio decided that it was time to play several pranks on various park goers, including Arthur, who found himself drenched by a sprinkler.

Alfred laughed and pointed at the scowling Brit, "Dude, you look like a cat that just got a bath!" Needless to say, Arthur was not amused.

An hour and two pranks later (one including a bucket of paint and a now green dog), Alfred bummed a bit of money off of Gilbert, who was the only one who had Canadian currency, and headed over to the hotdog stand. He was a bit surprised that Arthur didn't follow right after him, but he shrugged it off.

A hand brushed his shoulder and a voice whispered quickly at his side, "Go to the benches when you are done, Alfred-kun."

Recognizing the voice immediately, Alfred nodded with a grin, "How'd you find me?"

He got no answer. He shrugged it off and waited in line for his hotdog, smiling the entire time. Ivan wasn't the type of person he wanted to find him, but Kiku Honda was. The Japanese man was a good bit shorter than the American, but he easily made up for it in his agility and grace. Working under his brother, a major figure in the underground set him in a position to begin learning to fight at even a younger age than Alfred. The grace and lethal fluidity of his fighting background easily translated into his everyday motions. He wore a black jacket that sported buckles and chains for decoration and a black and red shirt underneath. His jeans were ripped towards the bottom and a pair of thick black boots peeked out from underneath them.

Alfred took a seat on the bench, munching on his hotdog. He glanced at Arthur. The British man was shouting at Gilbert and Francis who'd managed to gang up on him about his cooking. The American glanced at the Japanese man who was sitting beside him like a stranger, tossing crumbs to the park's birds, the paper bag in his lap an odd contrast to his clothes. "Good afternoon, Alfred-kun," he greeted softly, "I have a warning for you."

"I heard," Alfred responded, using his hotdog to cover the fact that he was speaking, "Ivan told me."

Kiku didn't look surprised, "Something strange is happening. I think that you best prepare."

"I can't, dude," Alfred pointed out, the black band on his ankle suddenly feeling like a chain, "I'm gonna get them killed, too."

Kiku smiled softly as a pigeon landed on his knee, "All you need is an army."

Alfred frowned, "Funny thing, Kiku; that's exactly what Ivan told me."

"Perhaps you should learn to look past the surface, Alfred-kun," Kiku suggested, "Things are not always what they seem."

Something weird was going on, and Alfred was beginning to suspect that it may have had something to do with the reason he was still alive. He bit at his lip, trying to think of an explanation, "Why didn't Ivan try harder? I'm kinda insulted."

Kiku frowned a bit, "Ivan is not what you have made him out to be in your mind, Alfred-kun. You know that he has his reasons, too." Alfred took another bite of his food, covering his frown. Yeah, but he wasn't going to admit it anytime soon. "There are people like Yao who think Winter's reign is at an end," Kiku continued, "Then there are people like you and Ivan, who have…personal grudges."

They were quiet for a minute while the information digested in Alfred's mind. Then it clicked, "Ivan was trying to _help_ me? With what? Why?"

Kiku returned his attention to the birds. He was quiet for a while, likely recovering from the decent bit of speaking he'd done earlier. "Spring will be coming soon, I hear," Kiku answered cryptically, setting the bag of breadcrumbs on Alfred's lap before he stood up, "It is good to see you again, old friend."

Alfred nodded, finishing his hotdog, "You, too, man." He quickly dug through the bag and found a piece of paper and a phone that he slipped into his pocket before he threw the remaining crumbs out on the ground and pitched the trash in the trashcan without Arthur seeing.

Alright, weird wasn't the right word. Whatever was going on was just freaky… and pretty awesome.

* * *

><p>With the park pretty much being a bust for everyone except Alfred, who claimed his suddenly mirth came from a hotdog, the group headed back to Gilbert's. Arthur was not a happy camper. His messy mop of blonde hair was still drying from the sudden shower, and he looked as though he could smash the nearby car window.<p>

Alfred poked his shoulder, "Hey, Artie, whatcha doin'?"

Emerald eyes glared back at him, "I'm sitting, git."

Alfred frowned, looking like a small puppy, "C'mon, dude… It's not heroic to sulk."

Those emerald eyes narrowed to deadly slits, "Says the one pouting."

"Ya know what you need?" Alfred asked with a smile.

Arthur sighed heavily and took the bait, "_What_ do I need, Alfred?"

"Ice-cream!" Alfred announced happily, "Ice-cream and a stack of comics."

"Why would I want to read a stack of comic books that all have the same basic plot?" Arthur demanded, looking even angrier than earlier.

Alfred looked like a child who'd just been told that his dog died, "Dude, have you even read a comic?"

"Have you?" Arthur snapped, "I thought hitm- I thought people like you didn't have the time for things like that."

Alfred sighed, his shoulders slumping just a bit. There was an odd twisting Arthur's stomach at the look in the American's blue eyes that he almost disguised with his usual smile. "I had a friend whose… boss worked with… that guy. I've only read two, and they totally weren't the same."

Arthur tried to squash what he identified as guilt. He failed.

* * *

><p>Oddly enough, once they arrived at Gilbert's house, Arthur told Alfred to stay in the car; apparently he had some official business to take care of. Alfred climbed into the front seat, calling shotgun enthusiastically while Arthur walked around to the driver's seat. Arthur didn't even bother to scold him.<p>

"So… what're we doin' that you've gotta be all secrety about?" Alfred asked, tempted to poke the other blonde on the shoulder.

"Secretive, git, "Arthur corrected, "I need to do a few things."

Alfred pouted and turned to the window. In the silence, his leg bobbed up and down rapidly in place of his mouth moving. Luckily, it didn't take long to reach a small store that Arthur parked at. He turned off the ignition and turned to Alfred, "You're going to stay put. If you get out of the car, I'll be forced to assume that you are attempting to flee and will take action. Do you understand?"

Alfred nodded, looking a bit surprised at the fact that Arthur was going to trust him, "Yeah, man. I got it."

"I'm not even going to bother correcting that one," Arthur sighed before he got out of the car and walked inside.

Once he was out of Alfred's line of sight, the American pulled the paper and phone from his pocket. He'd definitely need a better hiding place, but that'd have to wait. He opened the note first and recognized Kiku's neat writing:

"_America-kun,_

_We are moving, and the army is forming._

_Gather anyone you can and send them to China,_

_-Japan"_

Alfred frowned, not really understanding how he was supposed to gather anybody while stuck with the ever vigilant Arthur. Then again, he sure wasn't being too vigilant at the moment. He slipped the letter back in his pocket, making sure that it didn't leave an impression. He turned the phone on next and grinned. The background was definitely something Kiku set. He didn't know many other people who put adorable, cartoon animals on electronics.

He pulled up the list of contacts and scrolled down finding the names of countries: Belarus, China, Japan, Prussia, Russia, and Ukraine. Codenames based on nationality. Alfred resisted the urge to burst into laughter, substituting snickers in their place. He turned the phone off and slipped it in his pocket, managing to get himself under control.

As soon as he pocketed the phone, Arthur exited the building. Alfred quickly glanced out of the window, pretending that his attention was elsewhere. He only looked back at Arthur when the car door opened and shut, signaling that he was inside.

Before his mind could register what Arthur had in his hands, a soft weight fell into his lap. He looked down at the three books stacked there. "Huh?" he managed, looking up at Arthur, shock written clearly across his features.

There was a light pink dusting Arthur's cheeks as he glared at the road after starting the car and pulling out, "I thought you wore those glasses for a reason."

Alfred looked back at the graphic novels before he returned his gaze to Arthur, "These are mine?"

Arthur's scowl deepened, "No, git, I bought them for myself because I enjoy wasting money on things I don't like."

Once again, Alfred looked at the volumes, finally reaching out to examine each one individually with the care one would associate with a parent holding an infant. Slowly, Alfred felt his lips curl into a bright smile without having to force it. He turned back to beam at Arthur, "Thanks, Artie!"

If looks could kill, Alfred would have been dead. "Now you have to leave my book alone," Arthur reasoned.

The American ran his fingers across the pages, still beaming, "You got it, man!"

He really didn't care what Arthur's reasoning had been; those thin magazine-like books were first gifts he'd received in thirteen years. Even if he _was_ cranky and work-obsessed, Alfred decided at that point, that Arthur was a pretty nice guy under it all. And that gave him all the more reason to try and see to this army to get rid of Winter before Winter caught up with them.

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><p><strong>Sorry guys, I didn't have time to write a preview yet. But I will be updating tomorrow.<strong>


	8. Chapter 7: Descent

**Gah… That last chapter felt a little rushed… Hopefully I can make it up to you this time. ^.^ Once again, thank you guys for reading and reviewing. You guys are awesome like Prussia. **

**Glowstick145 Aw, thank you so much! I really kind of had some issues with that last chapter, but it makes me feel better that you said that you liked it. ^.^ I thought that the codenames would be a kind of amusing way of incorporating their country names. Anyway, I hope you continue to enjoy.**

**artfan Just wait until you get to the part where they decide on a name. XP**

**Nayli28 That's awesome. XP My phone internet is terrible, so I canceled the service. I'm really glad you enjoyed it. ^.^ I think Alfred just forgets to play dumb when he's drunk which makes Arthur think that he gets smarter. Happy Alfred is an adorable Alfred. O.O *excited* I can't wait! Oh, if you want me to do a request fic, just send the idea with the link. Any pairing, any AU. My only real talent is writing. XP**

**I don't own Hetalia… *More depressive sulking***

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><p><em>Chapter Seven:<em>

_Descent_

Things went well for roughly a week. Somehow, the group managed to survive the precarious little idea of coexistence with only a few minor accidents here and there (mostly, these were attributed to "the Bad Touch Trio" as Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio began calling themselves), but nothing much happened in the way of major events. Arthur mostly worked on paperwork that he apparently hadn't gotten around to in months while Alfred read and reread the comics Arthur continued to pick up at the store. He'd managed to collect a stack roughly a foot high, which was a bit surprising given the cost. The American also noticed the sheer amount of time his twin was spending with a particular albino German and had even walked in on what looked to be a fairly serious conversation given how close Gilbert was standing to Matthew, who had his back against the counter, and how red his twin was. Alfred merely smiled and pretended to be oblivious to the fact, grabbed what he'd been looking for, and walked out whistling. It was nice to see Mattie happy and healthy. Besides, he owned Gilbert enough to not bother the pair. Over all, things were peaceful.

He should have known that it couldn't last.

Sticking to schedule, Alfred checked the phone Kiku had given him three times a day. Thanks to the Englishman's seeming inability to break a rigid schedule unless his career or life depended on it (in that order, Alfred suspected), he was able to predict when he would be alone for a long enough period to check it. For the duration of the week, it was virtually dead.

Exactly a week from the day they arrived, Alfred received that first text message.

Arthur was off on his daily run to the store for Alfred's comics and tea, since the other boxes seemed to keep vanishing. Gilbert and Matthew were busy cook, which basically meant that Matthew was cooking and Gilbert was making a mess in the kitchen. Antonio, Francis, and a reluctant Lovino were off to sightsee. Antonio insisted on Lovino relaxing before he had a heart attack, which earned him a head-butt which he claimed was a "show of affection." Alfred didn't question it.

He was lounging on the couch, watching whatever Francis left on TV when he decided to check the phone. After being used to seeing the cute, fuzzy animals on the background, he was a bit startled to see a message screen. The ID on the screen nearly made his heart freeze: _Russia_.

There was only one person who could carry that codename. He opened the message.

"_Winter is coming. Try not to die before I arrive, _да?"

The idea of peace just flew out of the window and broke its neck.

Before he could stop it, his heart pounded in his chest like there was a fist locked in his chest, trying to break him apart from the inside, and a name past his lips, "Arthur…"

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><p>After spending yet another week with Alfred, Arthur had been under the impression that the American didn't have any more surprises. Getting tackled the moment he walked through the door, very nearly knocking him to the ground, counted as a surprise, in his book. "Artie, we've gotta move!" he shouted, "I already got Gilbert to get Mattie away from here, but we've gotta get out of the open."<p>

"What are you babbling about now?" he demanded, steading himself against the weight that was suddenly leaning against his smaller frame.

The strong arms that'd circled his back vanished and Arthur looked up into sky blue eyes that were screaming with nervous energy, "I saw Winter."

Arthur momentarily felt as though he'd been punched in the gut, "_What_?"

"Come on, you've gotta get out of here," Alfred urged, grabbing his wrist and tugging him back into the house.

Arthur dug his heels into the ground, even though the only thing it really did was slow them down a bit, "What's this 'you' business?"

"Artie!" Alfred whined, "Don't be difficult now." They were inside the house now.

Whatever retort Arthur was about to make died in his throat when he heard the _wiz_ of a silenced bullet shattering the window. Arthur momentarily froze up, but Alfred moved as though they hadn't been just a few inches away from being dead men. He pulled hard at Arthur's captured wrist and tugged the shorter man close while he hid behind a solid wall next to an open doorway that would provide cover for anything that stepped through the door or window.

"You get hit?" the American asked quietly, his eyes watching the window. Arthur shook his head, still a bit stunned. "Artie, I'm gonna need ya to trust me," he continued, "Can you do that?" Arthur vigorously shook his head, still not finding words. Alfred shifted and gently pushed Arthur into a corner, his hands on the Brit's shoulders. His blue eyes looked down into Arthur's green, his persistent grin still in place, "I'm gonna prove to you that I'm can be your hero. But you've gotta trust me."

Maybe it was the adrenaline or the sheer child-like honesty coming from Alfred's expression like waves that made Arthur give a reluctant nod. He didn't notice that the boy had taken his gun until he saw metal flash when Alfred walked out from behind the wall, towards the window. If Arthur's heart had been pounding earlier, it was in overdrive at the realization: he'd just allowed an assassin to take up a gun.

"Hey, Winter!" Alfred called, looking coldly confident, just as he had during his fight with the Russian, "Why're you playing hide-and-seek, huh?"

Arthur glanced around the wall, cursing at his lack of a weapon. A booted foot stepped through the broken window, the glass crunching under the person's shoe. Arthur had often tried to picture what General Winter looked like. In all of his attempts, he never even came close to the aged man who calmly stepped through the remains of the window.

Winter inspected the American coolly, "You should have stayed dead, Jones."

Alfred laughed a bit and shrugged with both hands and shoulders, his finger skillfully placed millimeters from the trigger, "What can I say, man? I live to surprise."

Winter answered with a shot around the same time Alfred ducked for cover next to Arthur. "Give me back my gun," Arthur demanded, ignoring the all too comfortable shoulder pressed against his.

They both heard the crunching glass. "Sorry, no can do," Alfred responded, "You donno how he fights."

"I'm not just standing here!" Arthur hissed, "I'm not useless!"

Alfred glanced quickly at Arthur, biting his lip; they were running out of time. "Fine," he finally caved, "Just be careful." Alfred skillfully slipped back out and fired off two rounds before Winter fired off two of his own. Cursing, Alfred leaned back against the wall. He glanced at Arthur with a grin that almost had enough confidence to him feel better. "Two more shots and you've gotta reload!" Alfred called, glancing around for some sort of extra cover.

Arthur grabbed Alfred's wrist, "We have to run."

Arthur wasn't expecting the toxic glare that was shot his way. "Never," Alfred responded, "Heroes don't run."

Arthur knew he was running out of time to convince Alfred. "What good are you to Matthew if you're dead?" he demanded.

"If I take him with me, a lot," Alfred hissed. For a reason he didn't have time to place, Arthur didn't like that thought.

"I suggest you stop playing, Jones," Winter's coarse voice called. Alfred didn't give Arthur a chance to respond. He dashed out from behind the wall with an agility Arthur knew was rare.

Arthur cursed and peeked out to watch, unable to do much actual fighting without a weapon. They'd abandoned their guns and were fighting in close combat. Arthur didn't even know when Alfred managed to get his hands on the kitchen knife he was using with all of the grace of a jungle cat and the finesse of a butcher. Winter was clearly the more experienced fighter, easily evading the attacks and dishing out his own with a rather nasty looking knife.

"добрый день, detective," the familiar, eerie voice greeted just over Arthur's right shoulder. The Englishman jumped and whirled around to face the Russian from over a week ago. The first thing his mind managed to comprehend was that the man was a good deal taller than Alfred, putting Arthur at an even worse height disadvantage. The next thing, of course, was the creepy smile that stuck to his face. It sent chills down Arthur's spine, and he vaguely wondered if all of Winter's underlings wore falsified smiles.

The final observation was the fact that the pipe the Russian had almost planted in Alfred's skull was nearly hidden behind the man's back as though he were a child trying to hide the fact that he'd stolen something. The top of the metal pipe stuck out over his shoulder.

"Winter isn't enough to kill the two of us?" Arthur demanded, trying to seem more angry than nervous. He'd seen the man move; there was no way he could take the guy on unarmed. Being outside of England made it possible to carry the weapon, but, sadly, it was uselessly laying feet from Alfred's battle.

The creepy grin on the Russian's face grew, "I am here to help, actually."

Arthur was fairly certain his jaw hit the floor, "Pardon?"

The Russian patted Arthur's head, seeming to try and be gentle despite how much the mere action jarred the Englishman until he thought he may have to worry about brain damage. One more similarity Arthur noted between the Russian and the American: they both had abnormal amounts of strength. "Stay put or you will die, дa?" he said before he headed out towards Alfred and Winter at an easy walking pace. Arthur bit at his lip, hating feeling useless.

* * *

><p>Alfred noticed when Winter spotted Ivan. His movements hitched just a fraction before regaining their fluidity. Alfred grinned, barely dodging a sweep of the hunting knife, "What took ya so long? Communism hold you up?"<p>

Ivan gave a short "kolkolkol" before he joined in the fight with his pipe, significantly taking some of the stress off of Alfred, "I do not think that is the way it works."

Alfred was silently amazed at how they were actually making progress in the fight. For a moment, he almost wondered why they hadn't tried to jointly attack Winter until then before he remembered the last and only time the Russian ever defied Winter; a year of solitary confinement in the dark had a way of… warping someone, especially a ten-year-old boy. Ivan hadn't ever been the same after that. His own defiance virtually ended the first time his penalties became Mattie's. His grin was vanished. In its place, he frowned as he channeled his anger into energy.

Sweeping, stepping, kicking: it all blended into a subconscious effort. Everything was going just fine until he heard the _click_ of a gun. All three fighters froze and looked to the sound.

If Winter could have grinned, Alfred imagined he would have at that moment. There was a second man near the window; Alfred wasn't the only one with backup. The Swiss man held the rifle up at his former comrades without hesitation. Alfred understood; his sister's life depended on his obedience, just like everyone else. "Vash," the General began calmly, pointing to the two younger men before him, "Shoot them."

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the English accent added in. Alfred whipped his head around to see Arthur, who had retrieved the gun off of the ground and was now pointing it at Winter. Alfred's heart hammered in his chest. It looked as though the idea of being careful hopped out of the window with peace.

"The battle lines have been drawn, then," Winter commented, eyeing the British detective. He reached into his coat and brought out a button. "I will take my leave now," he stated, heading towards the window, "I look forward to the real war."

Alfred was about to charge off after Vash and Winter, but the none-too-gentle hand that clamped down on his shoulder like a wrench stopped him. He whirled around to face Ivan, "Are you crazy? I could totally take him!"

"You bloody git!" Arthur hissed, lowering the gun now that Winter was out of sight, "Do you honestly not have any idea what that button was?"

The truthful answer was that Alfred was too focused on ending the threat that plagued the majority of his life to care. "I have a theory that he was born without the ability to think clearly," Ivan commented with a smile that he turned down to Alfred, "If we followed, we would have gone boom. That was simple enough for you to understand, дa?" He even added a small hand motion to the sound effect.

The American glared at Ivan before he turned to Arthur, "Thought I told you to be _careful_."

Arthur's frown deepened, "If you'll recall, _hero_, I'm the only reason you aren't currently sporting another bullet hole, no matter how stylish you seem to think they are."

Alfred's frown eased up, "Wait… You really didn't notice, did ya?"

"Notice what?" Arthur demanded.

Alfred took the two steps needed to put them within inches of each other. He held out a hand silently asking for the gun. Arthur sighed, knowing that it wouldn't matter much since he'd already had ahold of it earlier. There wasn't any doubt in his mind any longer that the boy meant everything he'd said about redemption and heroes. If he'd wanted to go back to Winter, that would have been the perfect chance.

He handed over the gun. With an ease that only came from immense amounts of experience, Alfred extended his arm, pointing the weapon at the wall and pulled the trigger without even blinking. The dull _click_ that sounded in the room made Arthur shiver at the realization that their lives had just been spared by a fluke. The weapon was empty.

Ivan obviously found that fact rather amusing since he began laughing. Throughout the entire process, blue eyes never left green. After a few seconds of Ivan's soft laughter, a smile grew on Alfred's face and he started snickering, lowering the gun and handing it back to Arthur, "That was freakin' awesome! I can't believe you just did that!"

Arthur scowled at the pair of laughing men. Whatever they found that was so amusing, Arthur found lost in translation from crazy to sanity. "If you gentlemen are finished, I imagine we should be leaving before someone changes their mind," he snapped.

Alfred immediately quit laughing and stared in horror at Arthur, "We are _not_ taking the commie with us."

Once again, the vice grip appeared on Alfred's shoulder. Ivan grinned down at the shorter blonde, "No need, but I appreciate your concern. China is waiting for me outside."

"Trust me, dude, concern isn't the right word… What about your sisters, though?" Alfred seethed, looking angrier than Arthur could ever remember seeing him, "He'll kill 'em now. You know that, right?"

Arthur could see the grip tighten on Alfred's shoulder until it looked painful to watch. He was just waiting to hear the _snap_ of bone giving way. "Unlike you, I am not foolish enough to go through with a plan where my family is likely to end up dead," Ivan responded, still smiling cheerfully, "Besides, my sisters are safe with Yao at the moment. I am not stupid, Alfred."

"Don't call me that," the American snapped.

Arthur wasn't really sure what to do. In fact, the situation had never seemed so utterly out of control; it seemed to feel as if the real competition for power was being fought between Ivan and Alfred, and he had no say in the matter. Ivan turned his unnerving smile to Arthur, "You will be needing help soon, дa?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, "I believe that I already have one assassin too many on my hands, thank you very much."

Ivan let loose a soft string of "kolkolkol" before he responded, "The time will come when you need… outside help. And I will be no trouble. I am…sweet."

Alfred scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "If he's sweet, I'm freakin' sugar."

"When the time comes, the law will never even know we were there," Ivan promised, ignoring Alfred's comment.

Arthur leered at the taller man, "That time won't ever come, I assure you."

Ivan grinned cheerfully. "Hey, commie… try not to die, alright? I've got a score to settle," Alfred mumbled, grabbing a bag of supplies that he'd packed after receiving Ivan's message and making sure the entire original group was split up and aware of the need to avoid the house.

The grin on Ivan's face widened, "The same to you, capitalist pig." The Russian vanished the minute Arthur turned his back.

"Your friends are strange," Arthur commented as they climbed into the car and sped away.

"Dude, Ivan is _not_ my friend," Alfred corrected. He dug in the bag until he pulled out a comic. Arthur sighed. He should have known. Who needed food when you could read about superheroes for nourishment?

* * *

><p>As soon as they were sure they were far enough away to be safe from Winter—at least for the moment—Alfred urged Arthur to all Francis and Antonio. Arthur knew it was a bad idea before he even heard the frantic, jumbled French on the other line, preceding the English, "Mon cher! I thought you were killed! 'ow could you leave me in the dark like that? Are you alright? Where is Alfred?"<p>

"We're fine," Arthur snapped, "Do you know how to get ahold of Gilbert?"

"'e and Will are with us at the moment," Francis answered, still unaware of the Canadian's real name, "That is 'ow we found out that you were in mortal peril."

"Frog, go with them," Arthur instructed, "We're splitting up."

There was a gasp on the other end of the line, "Mon ami, you cannot leave us behind when you need us the most!"

"Look, just listen to me for a change," Arthur sighed, "Let's just say that each group has something Winter wants. It would be dangerous if we regrouped."

There was the sound of a struggle and French curses that signaled that Francis had, once again, lost the phone. "The awesome me vill handle it! Don't vorry your little British head over it, Holmes," Gilbert announced. Arthur heard the German say something like "move out team awesome!" right before the _click_ that ended the call sounded.

Alfred was grinning while still scanning the page, "Your friends are strange, dude."

Recognizing the slightly altered sentence, Arthur leered at him, "Francis is _not_ my friend."

There was a short silence in which Alfred managed to turn the page twice. "Hey, Artie," he started, breaking the pause, "Where're we goin'?"

Arthur sighed heavily, "New York City."

Wide blue eyes looked up at Arthur. Alfred was beaming again, "Seriously?"

Arthur nodded, "Indeed."

He hadn't been expecting the arms that flew around his shoulders, nearly making him swerve into the other lane. He felt his face heating against his will. "You're the best, Artie! 'Sides me, 'course," the American cheered, nuzzling his cheek in the Brit's hair.

Arthur did swerve that time, narrowly missing a tree, "Get off me, you bloody git!" Alfred was almost more trouble than he was worth. Almost.

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><p><strong>Okay, here's the preview! O.o this turned out really long…<strong>

"_Why did ya become a cop, Artie?" Alfred asked, leaning against the balcony of the hotel room. The night air only held a light chill, just enough to make it comfortable weather for the dark hoodie Alfred was still wearing from France. Arthur almost thought the boy looked sereine, standing there with his back turned and the breeze lazily shifting his wheat-colored hair. _

_Arthur walked out to stand beside him, an odd contrast in a more structured coat. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Detective. I wanted to make sure no one died like my mother," he answered truthfully, "She's been a cold case file since I was fifteen." _

_Alfred gave a stiff nod. Arthur noticed that he wasn't watching the lights of the city, but the faint glimmer of the bright stars that were barely visible above New York. "Sorry 'bout that," he commented softly._

"_About what? You didn't kill her," Arthur said, frowning._

_Alfred shrugged, "Still… Artie, do ya ever think I'll be free of this?"_

"_Free of what?" Arthur asked._

_The American smiled sadly, "It's nothin'. Did ya know that I wanted to be the guy that made rockets when I was a kid?"_

_Arthur snorted, "_You_. A rocket scientist? I don't believe you have the patience for that."_

_Alfred's grin grew a bit before he turned to face Arthur. There was little space between them. "Not because I'm too stupid?" he teased._

_Arthur scowled a bit before he shook his head, "No, you may lack common sense, but I don't believe you're a stupid as you act." There was too much evidence to the contrary. Actions spoke louder than words, he supposed._

_A warm hand found its way to Arthur's cheek, "Why, Artie, you may just be the first person to ever say that I'm not an idiot." Arthur froze up. He shouldn't get attached. Neither one of them knew what would happen to Alfred after Winter was caught. '_Idiot!_' he scolded himself silently, '_He's a murderer and your only concern is what happens later?' _He bit at his lip. How could he have let himself get attached to a killer? The very thing he was sworn to bring to justice. _

_Even worse was the fact that he was beginning to realize which he would pick when the time came to choose between Alfred and justice. "I hate you," he lied, his inability to move away from the warm hand contradicting his statement._

"_That's fine," Alfred responded, retracting his hand and turning back to the stars. Something in his gut told Arthur that Alfred was lying. _


	9. Chapter 8: The Weeping Willows

**So, funny thing. I've got a ton of work to do, and I find myself typing this out. Isn't that just lovely? XP Anyway, once again, thank you guys for the support, I really appreciate it. The feedback makes me feel glad to come home after a long day and check my e-mails.**

**Artfan ^.^ Regular updates are crazy things. And, that line is talking about being free from a really brutal criminal record.**

**xIkuna ^.^ Thank you! I tried to update as soon as time would allow! I hope it's as good as you hoped!**

**Glowstick145 XD I'm so glad you think so!**

**Nayli28 XD Swtizy had to show up somewhere, and I'm glad you think he fit so well. Just a little hint: he's going to have competition on the other side. Anyway, I'll seriously write a request fic if you want one. *is really excited about the picture* **

**ScarletCanine Thank you. I understand what you're saying and I think that Arthur had a much bigger part in the next fight. **

**I feel like everyone should know by now that I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p><em>Chapter Eight:<em>

_The Weeping Willows _

The second Alfred stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalks of the Big Apple, he started laughing like a kid who was experiencing their first snowfall. "I can't even remember this place," he admitted, looking to Arthur who merely smiled as he watched the almost child-like wonder the American was displaying.

"Come on, git," Arthur called, a bit bothered by the fact that the insult was becoming more and more like an endearment, "We need to go check in."

Alfred was a bit reluctant to leave the streets, but he eventually followed Arthur inside the hotel on the outskirts of the city. It was a nice place, Arthur had to admit. He may even thank Ludwig for the reservations later.

Alfred hung back while Arthur checked in. The Brit couldn't help but notice that he'd quit dodging security cameras and had even taken to smiling at a few of them as though it were some sort of secret joke. The boy had a few strange quarks, Arthur had learned, but many of them were actually a bit… redeeming.

They went up to their room with Alfred carrying the single bag of luggage over his shoulder like Santa's bag of presents. No matter how much the American whined about wanting to take the lift, Arthur marched up the stairs, commenting on the boy's laziness. By the time they reached the fourth floor, Arthur almost debated throwing a kick behind him to send the American tumbling down the stairs shouting, "You can take the lift up this time, you bloody git!" He grinned at the image.

The room, like the hotel, was rather spacious. They had a kitchenette, a balcony, two large beds, and a flat screen TV. Arthur collapsed on one of the beds in an unceremonious manner, shutting his eyes. He'd driven straight from Canada, across the border, and into New York without short breaks and lots of coffee (he hated the stuff, but it managed to keep his eyes open). The stars were out, and he couldn't help but wonder just what the American was feeling, returning to the city of his birth.

He heard the American plop down on the other bed and the turning of pages. Apparently, outside of battle, Alfred was either obnoxiously clumsy or utterly careless. It was sometimes amazing that he managed to make it through a day without incurring some fatal injury.

"Wanna order a pizza? I'm starving," Alfred commented as another page turned.

Humming in and out of sleep, Arthur mumbled an agreement. He wasn't sure how much time passed before he felt a poke at his shoulder. "Artie, you awake?" Alfred's voice called.

The detective rubbed at his eyes, "Yes, Alfred, I'm awake. What do you want?"

"Uh… I gotta pay the pizza guy," Alfred answered. Arthur sighed and climbed to his feet, searching for some of the money he'd had exchanged for American dollars on the way through. He paid the young delivery boy and handed Alfred the box after taking out a single piece for himself. He'd never tell the other man that it was a good idea.

Arthur had only been sitting against the headboard of his bed when Alfred sat down next to him, the pizza box situated on his lap. He was already on his second piece. "This is why you need to walk up the stairs," Arthur commented, "You'll get fat otherwise."

The American looked aghast, "Dude, that's really brutal. 'Sides, if I exercise, I'll balance it all out!"

Arthur scoffed, "Twenty-four hours isn't enough time to work off everything _you_ eat in a day." He'd begun to suspect that Alfred thought that McDonalds was some sort of religion.

Alfred pouted, munching on his pizza, "You're just jealous."

Arthur raised a brow, "Of your obnoxious ability to eat your own bodyweight in food during one sitting? I think not."

"You're such an old man, Artie," Alfred mumbled, biting into his third piece of pizza.

Arthur was shocked for a full minute before he glared at the American, "I am _not_ old! I actually graduated from training early!"

Alfred's lips curled into a grin and Arthur should have known he was being played for entertainment, "Oh, yeah? How old are ya? 'Cause you act like you're my momma hen or somethin'. Like thirty? Thirty-five?"

Arthur turned red with anger and humiliation, "I'm _twenty-four_!"

Alfred laughed for a good, solid minute before he ruffled Arthur's messy hair, "I'm just messin' with ya, Artie."

Arthur leered at the taller man, "You're a brute."

Alfred glanced at Arthur from the corner of his eyes while his face was turned towards the TV. A wolfish tint appeared in his eyes and smirk, "Takes one to know one, dude."

Arthur punched him in the arm. The American complained for nearly an hour about how he was going to bruise.

* * *

><p>Arthur managed to catch about four hours of sleep after Alfred was fed and contently channel surfing. He could vaguely recall a dream in which his heart was pounding as he looked into eyes as blue as the sky and smiled. "It's fine," he'd simply said. There'd been another sentence following it. Even though he'd been the one to say it, he couldn't quite remember what he'd said. There was a finality to his words that scared him on some level.<p>

The blue eyes he was watching turned frantic. A head framed by blonde hair slowly shook back in forth. "Don't…" the voice that came was oddly soft and coarse, "Please, Artie…"

There was a noise after that. Someone was calling him, "Artie! Arthur!"

He groaned as he returned to the world of the conscious due to the poking at his shoulder and the chant of "Artie! Hey, Artie! Hello! Earth to Arthur!"

"_What_ could you _possibly_ want this time, Alfred?" Arthur hissed, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"Can I use your computer?" Alfred asked, still poking Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur sighed and grabbed Alfred's hand before he could poke his shoulder again. The man may have had superior strength, but Arthur had the advantage on speed. "Just what do you need a computer for?" he asked.

Unexpectedly, Alfred didn't yank his hand away, but curled his fingers around Arthur's. The older man flushed red and ripped his hand back, sitting up to leer at Alfred. Said American laughed loudly, "I _knew_ that'd get ya up."

Arthur ignored him, "What do you want with my computer?"

Alfred blinked behind his glasses, "I just wanted to look somthin' up. That's it, I promise."

Arthur knew he shouldn't. He didn't have any important files on the computer, but he was fairly certain giving an international criminal access to a global communications device was a bad idea. _But_… Alfred wasn't exactly the average international criminal. "Fine. You've got an hour," Arthur sighed, laying back down.

Alfred beamed happily and got him to unlock. The quiet stream of keys and clicks lulled Arthur back to sleep.

* * *

><p>The next time he woke up, it was roughly three in the morning. He bed depressed, snapping Arthur to his senses. Without warning, he shifted, grabbing his reloaded pistol from nearby and turning to pin the intruder down with his weight while aiming to fire. There had been far too many unwelcome guests for Arthur's tastes.<p>

However, instead of looking at a stranger, he was looking down at familiar, wide blue eyes. Alfred grinned sheepishly, "Gonna shoot me now?"

Arthur didn't move, fully aware that he was straddling one of the American's long legs, "What were you doing, hm, Alfred?"

Alfred was likely one of the first people Arthur had even seen that smiled and felt relaxed with the barrel of a gun pressed into his mop of hair. That odd sense of pity twisted in his stomach. How many times did someone have to face dead to become desensitized to dying?

Alfred let out a nervous laugh that had more to do with embarrassment than the gun, "I watched a scary movie."

Arthur blinked a few minutes, sitting up and letting the weapon sit at his side, "Pardon?" For a minute, he ignored how compromising the position would have looked.

Alfred interlocked his hands behind his head and turned a bit pink, "I watched a ghost movie and uh… Can I sleep over here tonight?"

The first snort of laughter came as a surprise to even Arthur. However, the snickers that erupted into laughter were not. Alfred frowned deeply up at Arthur who continued to laugh. "_You_ are afraid of a horror film?" he snickered, "I just pointed a gun at your temple and you didn't even flinch, and you're afraid of a ghost on television."

Alfred made a face somewhere between a scowl and a pout, "That's not cool, man; ghosts are freakin' scary." Arthur almost wouldn't have believed him had he not seen the light shiver that traveled down the younger man's shoulders.

Arthur finally quit laughing and shuffled his way to the other side of the bed, setting his gun back on the nightstand before he crawled under the covers. "Just stay on your side," he muttered, settling in for the night.

"You betcha, Artie!" the American chirped, shifting a bit before he stilled. Arthur was almost expecting more from the young blonde, but soft snores eventually dashed that though. Never once did it enter his mind that he was letting a killer sleep inches away from him.

* * *

><p>"Come <em>on<em>, Artie!" Alfred complained the next afternoon (Arthur had been exhausted and Alfred… Alfred just liked to sleep), tugging at the Brit's sleeve, "I did the research and everything. _Please_!"

Arthur sighed heavily as he looked up at the American. He'd never really seen Alfred beg for anything, yet, here he was. He was using those large, expressive blue eyes to his full advantage. "Where, exactly, are you wanting to go?" Arthur asked, knowing that he was caving in.

"I'll tell you when we get there," Alfred said, sheepishly. He gave one last tug on Arthur's sleeve before he finally let go. "It uh… it'd mean a lot to me, Artie," he added on, glancing at a nearby wall as he looked equally serious and embarrassed, "It's somethin' I need to do."

That was enough to break Arthur's resolve. He sighed again and gave a stiff nod before he grabbed his coat and went to the door. When Alfred didn't follow him, he turned to look at the American, "Are you coming or not?"

Alfred blinked twice before he smiled brightly and nodded, following after Arthur.

* * *

><p>Arthur wasn't really sure what to expect. While he followed the directions that Alfred apparently memorized from a google map (Arthur wasn't sure if he was encouraged or disturbed by the realization that the boy could easily retain so much information), he'd imagined what he would find at the end of the rabbit hole. He'd come up with either the world's biggest McDonalds (Alfred promptly informed him that that particular wonder was located in a different state), a clothing store, or a theme park. Never once in his listing did he think that they would end up at a cemetery.<p>

It wasn't the greatest looking place, but it did have an almost peaceful feel to it. Green vines crept up the side of several brick columns, and tall, sad trees leaned over the graves, as if to protect those inside them from any further damage. Arthur felt the strange mixture of finality, sadness, and peace that seemed universal to every such plot of land.

For the first time since their meeting, Alfred was hesitant. He stood outside of the wrought iron gate, just staring at the grey stones inside with a blank expression Arthur couldn't read. Arthur wasn't sure if it was reverence for those buried inside or for the odd seriousness that was plaguing his generally cheerful companion (he was a bit disturbed by his mind immediately came up with the term "companion" instead of "charge" in relation to Alfred) that made him gently reach out and grip the soft fabric of Alfred's blue hoodie.

Alfred didn't turn his eyes from the graves, "I don't… What do I do, Artie?"

Arthur frowned at how odd insecurity sounded coming from the American, "You _do_ know how to open a gate, do you not?"

Alfred gave a stiff nod, "Yeah, but…"

"But what?" Arthur cut in, "Open the gate and find whoever it is you're looking for. That's all there is to it."

That's when Arthur noticed that the younger man was biting at his lip and clinching his hands. "I don't want them to see me like this," Alfred finally admitted with a heavy sigh. He started to turn back to the car. "Sorry I made ya come out here," he mumbled.

Arthur scowled and grabbed the back of Alfred's collar, using the element of surprise to yank him back, nearly causing the American to land on his backside. Arthur looked up into blue eyes and shoved a finger into the smooth chest hidden beneath a blue hoodie, "Are you, Alfred Jones, being a coward?"

Surprise showed in Alfred's blue eyes, "Um… What?"

Arthur let his hand fall to his side, "I was under the impression that heroes didn't run away from their fears but faced them, you git."

A bitter smile rested on Alfred's lips, "I'm not a hero, Artie."

Arthur reached up to smack the other man on the back of the head, "You're an idiot, is what you are. Either march in there and do what you were intending to, or I'll revoke your comic books."

Alfred gaped, "You wouldn't!"

Arthur nodded, "Oh, I would, git. Now, belt up and go face your fears."

Alfred sighed heavily and walked up to the black gate. He reached out and grabbed the cold metal, feeling the chill that ran down his spine at the contact. He drew in a deep breath and pushed it open, taking hesitant steps through. Brown and yellow autumn leaves crunched under his feet from the change in the season. Many of the leaves blanketed the graves with their soft protection; a blanket for the long dead.

He took care to read the names silently to himself, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He almost dreaded finding the proper graves.

Arthur knew he found what he was looking for when he froze, his head cocked to the side. Arthur followed his eyes to read the names off of the unassuming grey stones. It was then that he realized that he was experiencing the reunion between parents and child for the first time in thirteen years. A sad smile rested on his lips as he watched Alfred slowly approached the graves, brushing the leaves off of the top of the stones with gentle hands. "Hi, mom," he heard Alfred breathe as he knelt down in front of the grey stone, one hand clinging onto it as though it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing, "It's Al. I just… I'm home."

"Would you like me to wait in the car?" Arthur asked, feeling rather awkward as he shifted his weight, shoving his hands in his coat.

Alfred looked up with wide blue eyes and shook his head, "Stay here, okay? I don't wanna be alone now."

Arthur sighed and walked up to stand beside the American as he looked down at the graves, wondering how different this reunion would be if they were alive. How would they react to what their sons had become—were forced to become? Then again, if they were alive, Alfred would likely just be another happy, normal American teenager. "If that's what you want," Arthur finally mumbled.

"I hope… you're not too mad at me," Alfred continued, grinning even though his eyes looked as though he were about to sob. Arthur knew that he wasn't the one being addressed and stayed silent, somehow feeling as though he were intruding upon something sacred. Alfred ran a thumb across the stone, "I'm gonna try to fix it, though. I'll do my best, 'cause that's the only thing a man can do, right?" He paused, seeming to run out of things to say. Arthur felt an odd, sympathetic pain in his stomach. How many times had he gone to his mother's grave to try and feel a connection to her? And yet, Alfred had never even seen his mother's grave, let alone found closure in her death.

After a few seconds of internal debate, he sat his hand firmly on Alfred's shoulder, hoping he hadn't violated some unspoken rule. When Alfred drew in a deep breath and continued, he knew he hadn't, "One of these day, I'm gonna make you proud of me. I promise. I'll be a hero, just like I told you." Arthur nearly shut his eyes at the familiarity of that sentence and the guilt of knowing that Alfred may never get to live up to that promise. His grip subconsciously tightened.

Alfred's father didn't receive an emotional speech, just a flick of the tombstone and a smile as the son passed along an unspoken, sacred message to his father. After a few more minutes of just watching, memorizing the stones, he stood up. Arthur removed his hand in the process. He just noticed the clear, almost unnoticeable trails of tears that had silently washed down Alfred's cheeks.

Arthur sighed and reached up to wipe them off with the sleeve of his coat. Alfred glanced away, clearly embarrassed, but he didn't say a word in protest. "I'm proud of you, git," Arthur muttered, almost inaudibly. The smile he received wasn't nearly as bright as the others, but it, too, reached deep inside those blue eyes.

* * *

><p>After visiting Alfred's parent's graves, Arthur decided to try and tone down the rest of the day by indulging in recreational activities. They stopped to buy lunch first, ending in an empty pain in Arthur's wallet. He'd actually caved in and purchased Alfred's entire order, much to both the American's and the kitchen staff's surprise. Much to Arthur's surprise, he actually managed to eat the whole mountain of food.<p>

They'd walked down the streets, shopping for a few pairs of extra clothes for the both of them. Alfred found a bomber jacket on sale that he stared at for nearly thirty minutes before Arthur bought it. Alfred made a rather big deal about that, but Arthur brushed it off.

After that, they went to dinner a an English styled pub. Once again, Alfred made a bit deal, this time complaining about how English food was worse than Russian food. Arthur reminded him non-too-gently that taste was subjective.

After dinner, they returned to the hotel room with Alfred proudly sporting his new jacket. Alfred found something on TV (a rather ridicules, in Arthur's opinion, superhero movie) that the pair watched while munching on a bowl of popcorn. Towards, the end, Alfred seemed to space out more than usual.

Arthur didn't call any attention to it until the boy walked out onto the balcony without a word after the movie. He glanced at the bomber jacket hanging neatly on the door before he got up and shuffled to the balcony to see what the boy was doing.

"Why did ya become a cop, Artie?" Alfred asked, leaning against the railing. The night air only held a light chill, just enough to make it comfortable weather for the dark hoodie Alfred had changed into. Arthur almost thought the boy looked serene, standing there with his back turned and the breeze lazily shifting his wheat-colored hair.

Arthur walked out to stand beside him, an odd contrast in a more structured coat. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Detective. I wanted to make sure no one died like my mother," he answered truthfully, "She's been a cold case file since I was fifteen."

Alfred gave a stiff nod. Arthur noticed that he wasn't watching the lights of the city, but the faint glimmer of the bright stars that were barely visible above New York. "Sorry 'bout that," he commented softly.

"About what? You didn't kill her," Arthur said, frowning.

Alfred shrugged, "Still… Artie, do ya ever think I'll be free of this?"

"Free of what?" Arthur asked.

The American smiled sadly, "It's nothin'. Did ya know that I wanted to be the guy that made rockets when I was a kid?"

Arthur snorted, "You. A rocket scientist? I don't believe you have the patience for that."

Alfred's grin grew a bit before he turned to face Arthur. There was little space between them. "Not because I'm too stupid?" he teased.

Arthur scowled a bit before he shook his head, "No, you may lack common sense, but I don't believe you're a stupid as you act." There was too much evidence to the contrary. Actions spoke louder than words, he supposed.

A warm hand found its way to Arthur's cheek, "Why, Artie, you may just be the first person to ever say that I'm not an idiot." Arthur froze up. He shouldn't get attached. Neither one of them knew what would happen to Alfred after Winter was caught. 'Idiot!' he scolded himself silently, 'He's a murderer and your only concern is what happens later?' He bit at his lip. How could he have let himself get attached to a killer? The very thing he was sworn to bring to justice.

Even worse was the fact that he was beginning to realize which he would pick when the time came to choose between Alfred and justice. "I hate you," he lied, his inability to move away from the warm hand contradicting his statement.

"That's fine," Alfred responded, retracting his hand and turning back to the stars. Something in his gut told Arthur that Alfred was lying. "No, that's not right," Alfred sighed, confirming Arthur's theory as he glanced down at Arthur, "That stung, but I understand. _That_'_s_ fine. I think I'm goin' to bed. Night, Artie."

He turned to go inside and Arthur let him, sighing heavily once again. The guilty knotting in his stomach told him to go tell the truth, but duty and self-preservation kept him bound in his spot. In his mind, though, he knew that duty only went so far.

* * *

><p><strong>Once again, I'm kind of pressed for time, so I'm going to have to leave you without a preview. T-T Sorry. <strong>


	10. Chapter 9: Cats and Keys

**Hello! Astro here with the next chapter. XD Once again, though I think you should know it by now, you guys are great! Thank you to everyone who follows and reads, and a special thank you to reviews. I really enjoy the feedback! ^.^ **

**Warnings: USUK moment and narcoleptic Greece**

**Glowstick145 Aw, I'm sorry. Hopefully this one makes up for it! ^.^**

**alguien22792 I'm glad I kept it believable. . Hopefully it still is once this chapter is done… *is paranoid***

**Renuki XD Alfred and ghosts… Always a funny combo. **

**Nayli28 I'm so glad you liked it! ^.^ I love reading your reviews, they're so nice. And I can completely relate to the internet issues. XP It tries to sabotage people. You don't have to do two… but I certainly won't stop you. XP**

**Asa-Taiyou ^.^ Thank you so much! It's a lot of work, but it's really fun. **

**CaptainCynical The irony here is that I had half of this chapter done before I got your review. XP This whole chapter is from Alfred's perspective. Anyway, thank you for the nice comments! ^.^ I appreciate them very much. And more USUK fluffiness coming up.**

**BadFriendsTrio Thank you! ^.^ Awesome username, by the way. I tried to update earlier but things got a bit chaotic. **

**Anyway, onward with the story with the characters and show that I don't own!**

_Chapter Nine:_

_Cats and Keys_

Alfred curled up on his side, listening to the soft sounds of the city outside of the hotel window, his eyes wide open and staring at the wall. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Arthur was asleep and the low buzzing of the TV was on before he slipped his head under the blankets and pulled out Kiku's phone. He'd received a message from Kiku asking how he was several hours earlier and had yet to answer it. He'd also gotten a message from Ivan telling him that he and "China"—Alfred had already worked out that Yao, the leader of an Asian based mafia family, was China—had successfully returned without incident, gloatingly asking Alfred if he was doing well under lock and key.

Alfred sent back a "_just fine, thanks for asking, commie creep_" before he moved on to Kiku's message. For a minute, he nearly typed out a less sarcastic version of his message to Ivan. He hesitated and deleted it, creating a new message. His fingers glided across the nearly silent keys, typing out, "_I'm not bleeding or anything._"

Kiku's response came a few minutes later, prompt as always, "_What has happened, America-kun?_"

He could almost imagine his best—only friend, he corrected himself—sitting at his impressive array of computer screens and technology with a frown on his face, his knees curled up near his chin as he sat in his throne-like office chair. He sighed heavily. He knew he could trust Kiku, he just… didn't really want to admit it. So, he deflected, "_Went to parents' graves today_."

Kiku's response was even faster than the first time, "_That is interesting. The detective took you?"_

Alfred was much slower with his response, "_Yeah_."

"_I see," _was the curt response.

Alfred sighed, knowing that Kiku wouldn't press the issue just as much as he knew that Kiku was aware that he'd deflected the real answer. The guy was nearly psychic with sensing moods, even across the phone. He finally decided to tell the truth, "_I got attached_."

The response from Kiku took a much longer time to arrive, "_To?_"

"_Sherlock Holmes_," Alfred answered, careful to protect identities.

"_You should totally attack Holmes in his sleep, America!_" Alfred stared at the text, eyes wide. Okay… What happened to the Kiku that squirmed uncomfortably when people on the streets hugged each other? And, since when did Kiku use sentence structures like that?

He got his answer in the next message, "_My cousin sent the last message. Please ignore it._"

Alfred bit at his lip to resist the urge to laugh. He'd met Yong Soo once before on a job with Kiku and Yao. Alfred had nearly laughed himself right out of his cover in the trees when he spotted the young man tackling Yao into a nearby pond. Even worse was his current desire to laugh at the image of Yong Soo and Ivan inhabiting the same living area.

"_Tell him I said no thanks_," Alfred responded with a smile.

"_I will not dignify him with a response. Why does this upset you, America-kun?_" Kiku asked.

Alfred sighed, feeling oddly normal and yet completely different, "_'Cause he'll be mad_."

Kiku's response was cryptic, as usual, "_Many times, best thing for ourselves is what we fear the most. Time to work. Good luck_." Alfred sighed and shut off the phone before hiding it once again. He rolled back over, looking at Arthur's sleeping back. He sighed heavily, slamming his head back into the soft pillow, aching for a sleep that wouldn't come for another hour or so.

* * *

><p>The next day, Alfred was the second to wake up. Apparently, staying up until four in the morning made one sleep in a little longer than nine. The shaking of his shoulder only stopped when he groaned and opened an eye. The blurry form of Arthur scowled down at him, "Get up, git; we've got work to do."<p>

"We? Dude, I thought you were the detective," Alfred complain, turning his head back into the soft pillow. Five more minutes was all he needed… Five minutes and a couple cups of coffee.

"And I thought you were the hero who was going to prove himself," Arthur countered, "Now get up."

"Artie… you're freakin' brutal, man," Alfred muttered into his pillow before he pushed himself up and grabbed his glasses. With his vision restored, Arthur's scowl looked a good deal less annoyed and more like it was covering up something. He squinted a bit, trying to figure out what it was. Arthur turned away before he could.

The Brit slipped his gun in a shoulder holster before he slipped on his coat, completely concealing it. He turned back to Alfred, "Go on, then. Hurry up and shower. We need to leave soon."

Alfred groaned again and managed to drag himself to the bathroom, nearly forgetting a change of clothes on the way.

As usual, a shower did Alfred good. He shook the few remaining water droplets from his hair before he looked back up at the mirror. He'd put on a t-shirt and jeans with his new jacket proudly thrown over the shirt bearing the emblem of the American flag. "The best thing for us is what we fear the most…" he mumbled to himself, smiling. He nodded, as though agreeing with his silent reflection before he gave it a thumbs-up and charged out of the bathroom. "Okay, Artie, I'm ready!" he called.

* * *

><p>Alfred tapped his fingers absently against the window of the car, trying to occupy his mind with something other than his wondering thoughts and memories. The car ride was oddly silent and a tension filled the small space that Alfred knew he was partially responsible for. His foot tapped against the floorboard in time with his fingers.<p>

Finally, Arthur broke. "Just bloody say it already!" he hissed, smacking the steering wheel.

Alfred tilted his head at Arthur, "What am I supposed to be sayin'? I mean, I know I'm brilliant and all, but I'm not a mind reader, dude."

Arthur sighed, looking much more demure than before. Alfred was constantly amused by the Brit's almost random mood swings. "I don't… I don't hate _you_," Arthur forced out in a quiet voice Alfred had never heard him use before. He was glaring at the windshield again, and Alfred nearly smiled at his expression.

"I'm sensin' a 'but' coming up," Alfred commented, grinning as he leaned back against the seat, interlocking his hands behind his head, "Guess I am totally a mind reader after all."

Arthur didn't comment on Alfred's joke, "_But_… I hate what you're doing to me."

Alright… Alfred was officially lost. "Uh… Mind translatin' that for me? I speak English, dude." He was well aware that he was ruining what was likely a very serious moment, but he couldn't help it; Arthur's expression were well worth it.

Arthur drew in a deep breath, likely to calm himself, before he answered, "I hate being uncertain."

Alfred waited for a minute, making sure that there wasn't another portion to the explanation. During the silence, he collected his scattered thoughts. He propped one foot on top of his opposite knee and looked up at the roof. "Maybe," he began, "things aren't always the way they look."

Arthur scoffed, "Where did you read that? A fortune cookie?"

Alfred laughed. Kiku sure had enough cryptic saying to get rich fast in the fortune cookie business. "You could say that, I guess," he said, still chuckling, "What I'm sayin' is that… maybe you outta give just winging it a chance. It's not that bad once ya get used to it."

Arthur sighed heavily, but didn't counter. Alfred felt a small warmth in his chest; he'd won that battle, he just wondered if he would win the war.

* * *

><p>They pulled up at a crowded back street a few minutes later. "What are we doing here?" Alfred asked, looking around at the crowds of… unsavory people. If Arthur was looking for a great place to get mugged and murdered… he hit the jackpot.<p>

"We're looking for someone," Arthur responded, his emerald eyes scanning the faces. The protective side of Alfred wanted to toss Arthur into the back seat and drive away. He knew all too well that the only thing they were going to find in that place wasn't good. It didn't matter what country they were in, they were all the same.

Something scratched at the side of the car, making both occupants cringe at the sound similar to nails on a chalkboard. Arthur opened the door, one hand reaching towards the weapon hidden under his jacket.

As it turned out, he didn't need the gun. A small grey cat hopped onto Arthur's lap, looking up at him with huge green eyes. Alfred half expected there to be some sort of explosive stuck to the cat's white and blue collar, but nothing was there save a piece of paper. If it had been any other time, Alfred would have burst out laughing at how he and Arthur must have look, staring at the cat as though it had just threatened to kill them.

Somewhere in the middle of his shock, Arthur managed to close and lock the door, never taking his eyes from the cat that was now grooming itself on his lap. "Dude… Artie, do you uh… There really is a cat in your lap, right?" Alfred started, not really sure what to do, "I'm not like… hallucinating or anything? I mean… is this like an alien invasion involving cats or somethin'?"

That seemed to snap Arthur out of his stunned stupor. He reached down and plucked the paper from the cat's collar and unfolded it, reading it aloud:

"_Detective Kirkland, _

_Ludwig says that you want some information. _

_Too busy to go there, so I sent Mr. μάφιν instead._

_Follow my map,_

_Greece_.

_PS Please bring μάφιν with you._"

Alfred felt his heart skip a beat at the last word on the page. Why would someone working with Arthur's people use the same codenames as Alfred's people…? He covered up his shock with a grin, "Grease? Like the stuff ya cook with?"

Arthur smacked him on the back of the head, "No, you bloody git. Greece as in the Mediterranean country."

Alfred playfully pouted, "I knew that." The sad part was that he was actually telling the truth.

"Of course, git," Arthur sighed, looking at the map, "This is… It looks as though a child drew it."

Alfred glanced at the map drawn on the page (which actually turned out to be a napkin, now that Alfred got a look at it) and snickered. Arthur was right. The only thing it was missing was a crayon drawing. "I donno what you're talkin' about, Artie, that's freakin' artist gold," he laughed.

Arthur sighed heavily, setting the cat on Alfred's lap, "I suppose sitting in this pace isn't going to help…" While Alfred absently stroked the cat's soft fur, Arthur pulled out of the ally and managed to get them onto a main street before something bad happened.

* * *

><p>After about two hours of chasing their own tails in the heavy traffic, Arthur finally managed to get them to the right address. It was a small coffee shop nestled quaintly between a large shopping center and a hardware store. Alfred didn't really question it. Instead, he picked up the cat and followed Arthur into the shop.<p>

Despite the warm, welcoming atmosphere and heavenly smell, the place was, at first glance, deserted. It wasn't until they heard the soft sounds of snores that both men turned to find a head of dark hair laying on the counter, its owner sound asleep.

"Uh… Does your boss drink a lot?" Alfred asked, looking at the guy.

Arthur shrugged absently, "He doesn't shut up about German beer, so I assume he does."

Alfred walked up and poked the guy on the shoulder. Said man opened tired-looking green eyes before slowly raising up, looking lazily at his two visitors. "Oh, hello," he greeted, his soft voice accented. Alfred knew that the man before them was "Greece."

Alfred let the cat slip out of his hands and onto the counter where it meowed softly and nuzzled the tired looking man, purring happily. The Greek man reached down and scratched the small animal behind the ears with a smile. "So…" he started, looking back up at Arthur and Alfred, "You are the people Ludwig sent?" There was a yawn crammed in the middle of his sentence.

"Yes," Arthur answered, "I'm Detective Arthur Kirkland and this is my… assistant, Alfred Jones." Alfred beamed at the title.

"Heracles," the Greek introduced, his green eyes glancing at Alfred before he turned back to Arthur, "Can you do something for me, my friend?"

"What?" Arthur demanded, frowning.

Heracles smiled softly and pointed to the hall nearby, "In the back room… there's a folder with the things you want."

Arthur scoffed, commenting on the perils of laziness before he stormed off in the direction he'd been pointed to. Heracles turned his friendly gaze to Alfred, "Hello… America."

Alfred smiled, "'Sup, Greece?"

"Japan told me a lot about you," he commented, lazily leaning against the counter again, "He gave me something to give you."

Alfred tilted his head, confused, "You know Ki-Japan?"

Heracles nodded, digging in his pocket, "Japan is my good friend." He fished out what looked to be a tiny grey box with a single button on it. He handed it to Alfred who tucked it in his pocket. "It's a key to freedom," he explained, "When you use it… you are supposed to call me."

Alfred nodded, catching the meaning. Whatever it was, it would unlock the tracking device around his ankle. Merely having it in his pocket made him feel better. "Thanks, dude," he said with a nod.

Heracles smiled, "You're welcome."

Arthur returned a few minutes later with a thick folder, frowning at Alfred, "Why are you so happy?"

Alfred grinned, "I just heard a totally sweet joke."

Arthur sighed and shook his head before turning to Heracles, "Thank you for your work. Come along, Mr. Jones."

Alfred nearly snickered, waving to the Greek before following Arthur, "'Course, Mr. Kirkland."

Heracles was asleep before they made it through the door.

* * *

><p>The suspense was killing him.<p>

"Artie!" he whined loudly for the fifteenth time, "What's in the folder!" Alfred had never been one to handle having a large secret dangled right in front of nose, just out of his reach. While Arthur was sitting on his bed, flipping through the stack of papers, he had been left with the remote which quickly lost its mesmerizing qualities. He'd gotten up to stand next to Arthur, trying to sneak glimpses at what he was reading.

The Englishman was silent for a few minutes, emerald eyes still scanning the page before he flipped it. He finally addressed Alfred, "For the last time, git, these are top secret."

"But I'm your _assistant_!" Alfred argued.

Arthur sighed, "No, you're my charge. There's a difference."

Alfred frowned, tapping his foot against the ground. He _had_ to know what was in those papers. He was quick to come up with a change in tactics. He sat down beside Arthur, smiling mischievously. "Arthur," he tried again, hoping the use of the detective's full first name was enough.

It was. Arthur looked up from the papers, "What is it?"

Alfred sprung his trap, attempting to snatch the folder while he was distracted. That, however, failed as Arthur hung onto the folder with all of his might, tugging it back towards himself. Thanks to his already awkward seating, Alfred was thrown off balance, ending up smacking his head against something soft and warm. He leaned up a bit and realized that it was Arthur's shoulder he'd landed on. It was also then that he noticed that he'd ended up placing one hand on either side of the Brit in his attempt to catch himself from falling. A pink dust covered Arthur's cheeks at the proximity, but neither one moved, not even to collect the loose papers nearby.

"Artie," Alfred started, hesitating in the middle of the sentence, "Push me away."

Silence followed once again, both of the room's occupants completely still. Alfred could see the inner struggle going on inside those emerald eyes. Finally, the battle seemed to end and his heart thumped in his chest, wondering which side prevailed. A small, hesitant shake of the head was his sign. Heart thumping loudly, he leaned in and claimed the prize.

A few minutes later, he was a bit surprised when warm hands pressed against his shoulders and even more surprised when slim fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He wasn't sure how much time passed before those same hands gave a gentle shove that sent him back. Arthur was staring at him, breathing heavily. "Not… No," he started, sighing, "You know what may very well happen to you when this is over."

Alfred nodded, sitting up, "Yeah, I know."

Arthur shuffled the papers together, trying to find come sort of order with them to balance the chaos that was evident behind his eyes. "Then you know why I shouldn't," he said, focusing on the papers.

Still, a warmth lit in the American's chest, "You mean, not 'cause of what I was?"

Arthur shook his head hesitantly, "No."

Alfred grinned, settling back on his bed, flipping through the channels. "Then, don't worry 'bout it 'cause I'm gonna prove to your boss that I can be just as helpful and heroic as Antonio," he declared, "And then everything'll be fine."

Arthur sighed, finally able to return to the papers. "I hope that you're right," he muttered so quietly that Alfred almost missed it. He didn't, however, miss the oddly sad and hopeful looks that flashed in those emerald eyes. "These are detailing the movements of Winter and your group for the past six years," Arthur said after a bit of silence.

"Huh?" Alfred asked, looking away from the TV.

Arthur held up the folder to indicate what he was referring to, "This has the details of everyone we suspect of being one of Winter's underlings and what little could be found on Winter himself."

Alfred scooted off his bed and sat down next to Arthur, looking down at the papers, "I can tell ya about them. Like, who they are and stuff."

Arthur looked up at Alfred as if contemplating something else to say before he nodded and looked back at the papers. They spent the rest of the evening looking into the information with neither one actually focused on the papers at all. They were both dwelling on the fact that Arthur had said that he "shouldn't" and not that he couldn't.

* * *

><p><strong>If google translate worked right, then μάφιν should mean muffin, but if anyone speaks Greek, please feel free to correct me if that's wrong. <strong>

**Preview!**

_Alfred held a finger up to his lips, glancing around the corner of the hall. Arthur waited, holding the cold metal of the gun in his hands. Last time, he hadn't had a weapon. This time, things were different. He may not have been able to outdo Alfred in a fist fight, but their earlier competition told him that he could outshoot the taller blonde. _

_Seeing that the coast was clear, Alfred nodded, heading into the next room with nearly silent steps. Arthur followed after him, looking around at the impressive computer set up. Heracles had been right: whatever was hidden inside that computer was obvious something big. _

_Alfred suspected that it would be the key to trying up all of the seemingly random occurrences that had been popping up since the day Winter failed to kill him. _


	11. Chapter 10: Blind Eye

**O.O I am SO sorry I haven't gotten the chance to update. School has been crazy. Anyway, here's the next one and, once again, I'm so, so sorry.**

**Anyway, as a side note: have I told you guys that you're the best? Well, I'm telling you again, darn it: you guys are the best! Seriously. Like Prussia-level (roughly level 10,000, I believe) awesome! Just the sheer number of hits makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! Anyway, so here's to continuing the story and, one more time, I'm so sorry for being so late. **

***checks e-mail* Nope, still don't own Hetalia not the characters within.**

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><p><em>Chapter Ten:<em>

_Blind Eye_

Alfred woke up the next morning feeling oddly happy. It likely had something to do with the fact that he'd had a good night's sleep without being bothered by nightmares, a good talk with Arthur, a nice movie, and _peace_. He even managed to get up earlier than Arthur which was quite the accomplishment, in his book. He pushed the blankets back and crawled out of bed, heading off to the tiny kitchenette to make a couple of cups of coffee.

He was about to wake Arthur up when he realized that he still had a few minutes to check his phone. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the Brit was still sound asleep, he glanced down at the screen. Sure enough… Ivan had once again made it his personal goal to ruin any peaceful situation Alfred found. He sighed heavily and opened the message.

"_Как __дела__?_" the message read.

Alfred sighed, typing back, "_Dude, I'm not switching the font on my keyboard for you."_

He could almost hear the "kolkolkol" from the other side of the silent conversation. Apparently Ivan wasn't nearly as fast at responding at Kiku. But… that made sense. Kiku was a technology genius. Ivan… was so much. After about ten minutes, he got a reply, "_I believe you have a double standard, America. I have to switch my keyboard for you."_

Alfred scowled at the phone as though he were scowling at Ivan himself. He typed out his response, "_What do you want, Russia?_"

He did _not_ expect the answer, "_You need to know the truth about Winter._" Alfred's immediate reaction was to laugh, but he managed to stifle it. What could he possible not know? The guy was a psycho, he was the best at his line of work, and he was evil. That's all Alfred _wanted_ to know.

He finally forced himself to reply with, "_What truth?_"

Unfortunately, a light groan forced him to quickly shut the phone off and slip it back in his pocket. He still couldn't risk Arthur knowing about the phone; their lives may just depend on his connection to the anti-Winter group.

He put on a grin for Arthur when he woke up, offering him a cup of coffee. The Brit rubbed sluggishly at his eyes before he accepted it and took a sip. He frowned, "Well, it's certainly not tea."

Alfred scoffed playfully, "'Course not, dude; coffee's much better."

Arthur shook his head, but didn't argue. He got up and walked to the bathroom after finishing his coffee to get dressed. For some reason, Alfred didn't dare look at the new message he was sure was on his phone.

* * *

><p>Arthur frowned as he paced back and forth while in the middle of the call from Ludwig. He'd gone out into the deserted hallway in order to prevent Alfred from overhearing what he had to say. "All I am saying is that I have come across evidence that needs to be considered in this case," he snapped, "And besides that, he's giving me any information I ask for and even volunteering information. "<p>

"_Good behavior does not excuse a lifetime of murder_," Ludwig responded evenly.

Arthur barely suppressed a growl, "There was nothing he could do to stop it."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone, a clear warning that Arthur ought to quit while he was ahead, "_I _vill_ remove him from you care if you do not stop this, Kirkland._"

Arthur tensed, unsure of what to do next. "What about Gilbert?"

Ludwig hesitated and Arthur took it as a good sign: Ludwig didn't hesitate. "_Vhat are you talking about?_"

Arthur smirked, knowing that he finally had the upper hand, "I'm not a fool and neither are you. How else would he know so much about Winter?"

"_You are venturing into dangerous vaters, Kirkland_," Ludwig growled, "_You can't bribe me_."

"I'm not," Arthur quickly corrected, "I'm _reminding _you."

There was another heavy sigh on Ludwig's end of the line, "_Fine. I vill see vhat I can do. Don't expect any more favors from me._"

Arthur nearly laughed as the knot of anxiety slowly unwound from his stomach, "Trust me; I have no need to."

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><p>Alfred was a bit surprised when Arthur came back into the room, as close to beaming as he'd ever been. "Uh… you feeling alright?" he asked, unsure of what to make of the situation.<p>

The cheerful expression dissolved into a sly one that reminded Alfred of a fox. Once again, he was left off balance by Arthur's disposition. "You're an excellent fighter. But I wonder just how good you are with a gun," the Brit mused aloud.

Alfred's spine stiffened. What kind of question was that to ask an ex-assassin? "Good enough. Why?" he responded shortly, shifting uncomfortably with the question.

Arthur sighed, his sly expression slowly fading to recognition. Alfred's heart nearly skipped a beat: Arthur had forgotten. How in the world he'd managed to forget that Alfred was skilled enough with a gun to kill countless people, he didn't know. Frankly, he didn't care. He was just elated by the fact that he had. "I need to know your strengths and weaknesses in case we get into another battle with Winter, and I image the same is true of you for me," Arthur explained.

Alfred took a minute to process the explanation before he nodded, a nervous feeling twisting in his gut. He didn't want to feel the cold metal of a gun pressed in his hand again, but Arthur had a point; to be useful in battle with one another, they needed to know where each other's strengths and weaknesses were.

"Come along, git," Arthur instructed before heading towards the door.

* * *

><p>They ended up at a shooting range. Alfred sighed heavily when Arthur parked and the Brit examined him in the passenger seat, "You don't have to, you know."<p>

Alfred shrugged, "Nah, I'll be happy to show you up, old man."

Arthur scowled at him, any sympathy he'd previously seen gone. He climbed out of the car and Alfred followed, feeling a bit better. Arthur led him to the building where they checked in. They went down to a lane and Arthur passed the gun off to the America, "Youth before skill."

Alfred grinned and familiarly gripped the gun in his hand, "Just make sure to pick your jaw up off the ground when I'm done. Wouldn't wanna leave it behind."

Arthur ignored him and waited as Alfred quickly set up his stance, looked down the sights of the pistol to focus on the tiny red dot, and fired three quick rounds. The grouping was tight but shifted just to the left. It wasn't enough to really matter were it a life-and-death situation, but Arthur's grin was smug. "You're off, git," he pointed out.

Alfred raised a brow, thoroughly entertained, "Oh yeah? Just try to outdo that."

Arthur's smug expression didn't wane. Instead, he skillfully slipped into the familiar stance and rattled off three shots. Alfred squinted behind his glasses to see the target. When he did, he vaguely made a note not to forget to collect _his_ jaw off the ground. The three holes in the paper where touching one another, dead center in the middle of the target. "You cheated!" Alfred teased.

Arthur's smug expression fell into a frown, "What are you talking about, git? How could I cheat?"

"Dude, that's pretty cool," he admitted, "But you still can beat me in a fight."

Arthur's frown deepened, "Didn't anyone tell you that you ought to bring a _gun_ to a gunfight?"

This time, it was Alfred whose confidence didn't waver, "Yeah. If you were more than a few feet away, I'd be a dead man. But at this distance, I'd totally win."

"Is that so?" Arthur asked, an amused smirk tugging at the edges of his lips.

Alfred nodded and took a step closer, leaving little distance between the pair. "Yeah, that's so," he teased, "I could show you, if ya want."

Arthur looked up at the small height difference. Alfred could see the internal debate wasn't going to last long. They could use all of the skills they had to spare. "I suppose you could," Arthur finally agreed, "When we get back, of course."

Alfred nodded in agreement. They spent the rest of the hour firing off shots at the target. Alfred didn't even bother to keep up with points.

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><p>The first lesson occurred after dinner when they returned to the hotel room. Alfred was a bit surprised when Arthur brought it up, demanding that the American make good on his word. Alfred managed a nod before the pair cleared out a spot big enough to give them ample space. "What now?" Arthur asked as they face each other.<p>

Alfred grinned confidently, "Try and hit me."

Arthur tilted his head a bit, "You want me to hit you?"

Alfred nodded vigorously, "Yeah. Come on. Try me."

Arthur shrugged. If Alfred really wanted him to, who was he to deny him? He quickly closed the gap between them and threw a punch. A strong hand immediately latched onto his fist, stopping him as surely as if he'd punched a brick wall. Alfred's innocent grin widened, "You're gonna have to try harder than that."

Scowling, Arthur became serious. He lifted his leg to throw out a kick to distance himself from Alfred. Unfortunately, the taller blonde simply deflected the blow with his free arm. Alright, if Alfred wanted serious, he was about to get it.

Arthur twisted his arm to free his hand from Alfred's grip before swiftly launching another punch aimed at the taller man's gut. Alfred stepped off to the side, grabbed hold of the Brit's arm like a wrench, and stepped behind him, lightly pulling on the appendage. Not bothering to wait, Arthur shoved his free elbow back to strike out at the American. He smirked when he felt the toned muscles of Alfred's stomach.

Alfred laughed and let go, "Not too bad, but I've got some trick for you to learn." He stepped around to face Arthur and gently reached out to press his index finger against the Brit's cheek.

"You bloody git, I—" Arthur froze when he felt the gentle nudge of a closed fist against his stomach.

"Lesson one: don't fight fair," Alfred announced, chuckling all the while, "Honor doesn't do you much good if you're dead, and Winter's people aren't gonna wait around for you to figure that out."

Needless to say, Alfred's lessons were taught mostly through example.

* * *

><p>Their lesson was cut off by a phone call from Ludwig an hour later. Arthur answered the phone, still huffing from the exercise he'd just been doing. "Yes?" he greeted.<p>

Alfred stood off to the side, watching Arthur with a smile. The Brit was a fast learner and seemed to be able to pick things up either the first or second time he saw them. Contrary to his complaints, he seemed to listen to Alfred's instruction and keep it in mind. The American had to admit that he wasn't a bad fighter to begin with, but he simply didn't know what he was dealing with as far as Winter's students went.

Arthur ended the conversation with a hint of a scowl. "What's up?" Alfred asked, eyeing the Brit. He had changed into a simple t-shirt and loose pants in order to move properly and a thin veil of sweat covered his forehead. Alfred probably wasn't fairing much better. There was a hint of red still touching his pale cheeks.

"Ludwig has something he wants us to look into while we're here," Arthur answered, "Apparently it's rather big."

Alfred nodded, "Sounds good. Finally, some real action!"

Arthur raised a large brow, "What's been happening the past few days doesn't count as action to you?"

"Learn to take a joke, Artie," Alfred teased, reaching out to ruffle the shorter blonde's hair, "When are we leaving?"

"Tonight," Arthur answered. There was a strange sense of finality to that statement that Alfred wasn't sure he liked…

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><p>The building was old and abandoned. It sat out on the edge of a town roughly thirty minutes from the city and seemed to have fallen into disrepair. Some of the wooden planks had been weathered away, leaving a few small gaps in the walls and a portion of the roof was caved in.<p>

"Have you been here before?" Arthur asked as they both surveyed the building.

Alfred shook his head, "No, Winter didn't let any of us go back to our birth countries; he was afraid somebody would recognize us."

Arthur nodded without taking his emerald eyes from the building. Something about it was… off, and both of them could feel it.

Alfred was the first to leave the car. Arthur followed right after him, and the two approached the building. "Artie, there's no one here," Alfred pointed out as he looked around. That alone was strange. Then there was the fact that Alfred couldn't seem to spot any of Winter's usual traps. The either meant that the building was a false lead, it was abandoned, or there was something nasty waiting inside…

"Come on, git," Arthur finally instructed before he glanced back over his shoulder, "Just… be careful."

Alfred nodded and quickly set a pace next to Arthur, "You, too." Arthur gave a nod as they reached the door.

Both sets of eyes inspected the weathered and graffiti-ridden wood. There didn't seem to even be a lock on it. Alfred decided to take the initiative and press his fingertips against it before Arthur did. Both men waited on some sort of monster to jump out and say "boo." When that didn't happen, and the door simply swung back to reveal a bare and empty room, they were both surprised.

Every sense in Alfred told him it was a trap, and he was quick to relay that information to Arthur. "Then we'll simply be careful," Arthur responded, entering the building while pulling out his pistol. Alfred quickly followed, refusing to leave the Englishman alone inside the building.

Blue eyes scanned the walls for any sign of a trap. He was halfway finished when a warm hand firmly gripped his shoulder. He looked down to see that Arthur was a bit paler than usual. Alfred followed his green eyes and felt his heart skip a beat.

In the unmistakable color of dried blood, there was a single message scrawled across the wall: "_Welcome home, Jones_."

"Artie…" Alfred started, instantly recognizing the neat swirls of letters, "You need to go. _Now_."

The hand on his shoulder tightened, "No."

Alfred finally tore his eyes from the message to glare down at Arthur. He nearly faltered when he saw the concern in those green eyes. No one besides his brother had even been concerned for him. He sighed lightly, "_We_ need to go, then."

Arthur let go with a scowl before inspecting the blood, "It's old, Alfred. Days. Whoever left this is likely gone by now."

Alfred bit at his lip, "Fine. Ten minutes and I'm dragging you outta here. Got it?" Arthur nodded in agreement before he began his search around the bare room.

There was a lone door that traveled down a long hall. Alfred nearly cursed when Arthur decided to check it out. "Keep that gun close," he warned quietly as they made their way through the hall. It seemed as though it were something out of a dream: impossibly long covered in pealing, tacky wallpaper, and baring aged and uncared for pictures. Alfred felt his heart thumbing against his ribs, but it wasn't his own safety he was concerned about; it was Arthur's.

When they reached the door, he nearly feared that the organ would explode in his chest.

Alfred held a finger up to his lips, glancing around the corner of the door after a moment's hesitation. Arthur waited, holding the cold metal of the gun in his hands. Last time, he hadn't had a weapon. This time, things were different. He may not have been able to outdo Alfred in a fist fight, but their earlier competition told him that he could outshoot the taller blonde.

Seeing that the coast was clear, Alfred nodded, heading into the next room with nearly silent steps. Arthur followed after him, looking around at the impressive computer set up. Ludwig had been right: whatever was hidden inside that computer was obvious something big.

Alfred suspected that it would be the key to trying up all of the seemingly random occurrences that had been popping up since the day Winter failed to kill him.

He walked up to the set up that took up nearly an entire wall of what looked to have once been a small bedroom. The fact that there was still no one around combined with the message from earlier, let him unnerved and cautious. He tapped a key on the keyboard before drawing his hand back as though he'd touched poison.

The middle of three screens came alight with several different files all scattered across the display. Alfred felt his eyes widening without his permission as he scanned the words on the screens. "Arthur…" he called before he even realized he had.

"What no—W-What _is_ that…?" Arthur sputtered from Alfred's left.

"Call Ludwig," Alfred instructed without tearing his eyes from the map on the screen. For once, his voice held no cheer, no happy inflection, no emotion at all really; he was too numb from the shock.

_Click_. "I wouldn't be doing that just yet, Mr. Kirkland."

Alfred's spine stiffened and his posture went ridged as the blood in his veins froze and turned to ice. The cold muzzle of the barrel pressed lightly to the back of his head. Mentally, he sighed in relief that it wasn't Arthur Winter was pointing the gun to.

"What do you want?" Arthur growled, turning completely to face the assassin.

"Arthur, stop," Alfred instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"It's a fair question, Jones," Winter chuckled, "As much as I would love to kill you, it's not quite time yet."

Alfred bit his lip, seething with anger, "I'll stop you if it kills me."

Winter laughed a thin, rasping noise, "I would watch out what I wished for, Jones. Now. If you will excuse me, Yao will be here any moment, and I have business to attend to. Ah, and I suppose I should make sure you two don't follow me."

The second the barrel was gone from the back of Alfred's head, there was a shot. Alfred paled, frozen and unable to turn his head to the left to see what had happened. Three more shots rang out from a different, closer angle. When he heard the hiss and the _thud_, his body finally responded.

Arthur held his side, drawing breaths in short pants. Alfred collapsed next to him and inspected the bleeding wound. It was bad. A sound somewhere between a gasp and a chock slipped from Alfred's lips.

Arthur hissed softly, pressing his hand to the wound, blood dripping from in-between his fingers. Alfred's mind latched onto the piece of information he'd overlooked before: Winter said that Yao was coming. He drew the smaller blonde into his arms and pressed against the wound, making sure there was cloth between his fingers and the torn flesh. Arthur was trembling.

"I think… I hit him," the Brit murmured in a shaky voice.

Alfred didn't respond. All he could think about was how, of all the blood on his hands, Arthur's felt the most like a toxin. Almost as though it had seeping into his skin, forever branding him for what he was even if he hadn't been the one to fire the shot.

"Git?" the call was soft, almost steady, "Alfred…?"

"Yao 's coming," Alfred responded quickly, tucking the head of blonde hair under his chin, "Yao 's coming. It's gonna be fine. It'll be fine."

There was a soft, shaky chuckle as hazy emerald eyes locked with frantic blue, "Bloody git… Of course I'll be fine. You're a hero… after all."

Alfred bit down hard on his lip and clung to the slim, shivering blonde, his heart shattering. He was numb. There was nothing in the world but himself and the shivering English detective. He wanted to scream, to shout, _anything_. Instead, his voice came out soft and rushed. Anything to keep Arthur awake. Anything to keep him alive.

Several minutes later, when Yao and Ivan rushed into the room, weapons drawn and ready to fire, they found the two blondes still in the floor, Alfred whispering panicked comforts to an unconscious Arthur.

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><p><strong>T.T Once again, I am so sorry this is so late. Please forgive me… T.T Anyway… I can't exactly give away the next chapter since this <strong>_**is**_** a cliff hanger… But I'll go ahead and tell you that Alfred will reveal what they found on the computer in the next chapter! XP But I can assure you that it won't take as long as if did before to get the next chapter out. And, one more time, I'm so sorry! **


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